


Blind Faith

by SunseticMonster (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Aurors, Blindness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SunseticMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't think of it as losing your sight. Think of it as gaining an Animagus who never quite learned the meaning of the word 'boundaries'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Faith

**Author's Note:**

> **Author/Artist LJ Name:**[jm9001](http://jm9001.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Prompter:** sunseticmonster  
>  **Prompt Number:** #49  
>  **Title:** Blind Faith  
>  **Pairing(s):** Harry/Draco, implied Ron/Hermione  & Blaise/Astoria  
>  **Summary:** Don't think of it as losing your sight. Think of it as gaining an Animagus who never quite learned the meaning of the word 'boundaries'.  
>  **Rating:** R for naughty business and swears  
>  **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Warning(s):** none  
>  **Epilogue compliant?** Nooooooooope.  
>  **Word Count:** 21,014  
>  **Author's Notes:** Phew. This was a huge challenge to write. But the prompt was delightful, and I wanted so hard to do it justice! Fingers crossed that I managed. Many thanks to B, my absolutely insanely amazing beta-extraordinaire, whose comments made editing this hilarious, and whose helpful advice about the dirty bits made me question his sexuality.

As soon as he opens his eyes, Draco realizes that something is wrong. In fact, it takes him a few moments to realize that he’s opened his eyes at all, since it’s just as dark as it was when they were closed. It doesn’t take quite as long for the panic to set in, for his throat to close up, and for his heart to start hammering against his ribcage.

He can’t see anything.

 _Mr. Malfoy, can you hear me?_ A voice comes from nowhere, startling him. The voice is tinny, a noise, ringing in his ears longer than it ought to.

Yes, yes, of course he can. There’s nothing wrong with his ears, apparently, it’s just his blasted eyes. Where is he? The darkness is disorienting. He feels like he’s spinning and he’s not quite sure how to make it stop.

_You’re at St. Mungo’s , Mr. Malfoy. There was an attack at Diagon Alley, do you remember?_

Draco remembers a flash of light, a searing pain in his head, but nothing after. Was he injured?

_No, Mr. Malfoy, you didn’t sustain any injuries beyond the damage to your eyes._

That’s right, he can’t bloody see. It had better not be permanent. Every curse has a counter-curse, and this damned healer better be about to tell him so.

_It isn’t permanent, Mr. Malfoy, but I’m afraid it isn’t a curse, either. It’s curse damage, and extensive damage at that. Potions, in the form of eyedrops twice daily, should begin to heal the damage to your corneas. It may be up to five days before your vision is restored._

Five days? A healing time of anything longer than 24 hours is barbaric. He has a life to get back to! Draco wants to add more, to shout until someone tells him he can have his vision back within the hour, but he’s so relieved to know that this strange suspension in darkness isn’t permanent that he can’t muster the anger.

 _I wish it were shorter as well, Mr. Malfoy. Potions can only do so much to repair the body. We wouldn’t want to-_ The healer’s voice breaks off, and Draco panics, afraid he’s lost his hearing as well. A new voice, rumbling and deep, shakes him out of his worry. Draco relaxes against the hospital bed, fists gripping his bed sheets to help him remember which way is up.

 _How is he doing?_ The new voice asks.

 _As well as can be expected, sir._ The healer replies.

Sir? Who’s there?

 _Hello, Malfoy._ The new voice responds smoothly. Something twigs familiar about the voice, but Draco can’t put his finger on what. Does he know whoever this is?

_We’ve met. It doesn’t matter. I’m an Auror, and I’m here to collect your statement so that we can proceed with our investigation._

A statement? Well, that’s rich. The Aurors, taking a statement _from_ Draco about a crime committed _against_ him. Does the Auror have a minute to wait while Draco gets over the shock? This is the first time he’s been on this side of an Auror investigation.

 _Play nice, Malfoy. I’m here to help you._ The deep voice replies with a small chuckle.

Draco doesn’t need any help. He’s perfectly fine, the healer said so. Just a few eyedrops, he’ll be out of everyone’s hair, and he and the Auror department can go back to our peaceful relationship of pretending the other doesn’t exist.

_You’re not perfectly fine. You’ve just been blinded. Aren’t you angry?_

Of course he’s angry. He hasn’t the slightest clue how he’s going to take care of himself for the next week. But that’s his cross to bear, isn’t it, and pretending to care about an investigation is hardly going to make a difference.

_It would make a difference. We could find the person responsible for doing this._

And then what? Does it really matter who did this?

 _Of course it matters! Don’t you want them brought to justice?_ The Auror splutters over his words, and Draco suspects he is struggling to understand Draco’s apathy. Then again, this Auror hasn’t spent the past four years becoming increasingly aware of just how much everyone in the world hates him.

Look, at the end of the day, catching his attacker won’t do anything for him. It won’t bring his vision back more quickly. It won’t stop the room from spinning, his head from hurting, or make being blind any easier. Besides, he’s sure the Auror corps has more important things to do.

 _An innocent wizard was seriously harmed in broad daylight. There is_ nothing _more important than finding the person responsible and stopping them before they do worse._

Draco has to laugh at that. This Auror does know who he’s talking to, right? This isn’t a case of a random attack on a defenseless old witch. Trust Draco when he says, there is absolutely no chance that anyone else will be attacked by whoever did this to him.

_Even if it was directed at you specifically, there’s a chance he could target you again. Next time you might not be so lucky, getting off with just a minor injury._

Or perhaps he’ll be luckier, and they’ll finish the job.

The Auror doesn’t answer. It’s dark and silent, and all that tethers Draco to the world is the soft scratch of hospital bedsheets against his fingers. He wants someone to say something, anything, just to make sure he’s still alive. He needs someone to say something.

_Sorry. I… You don’t really mean that, do you?_

Of course he means it. He wouldn’t have said it, if he hadn’t meant it. In fact, come to think of it, maybe removing his vision was a blessing. He doesn’t have to see himself, for the next five days. A welcome respite. Not that it was any of this Auror’s business. Could he be left in peace, please? He’s not going to give a statement. No need to waste any of the Auror corps valuable time.

_Shit, Malfoy. That’s… Look, I’m going to find this person whether you help or not._

So long as he realizes he is doing it for himself, and not for Draco.

_It doesn’t matter who I’m doing it for, I’m doing it._

Well, if that’s settled, Draco has nothing left to add to this conversation. He’s tired, and he wants to talk to the healer about how the hell he is supposed to learn how to stand up when he can’t find the floor. Someone sighs, probably the Auror. Heavy boots move towards the door, and Draco is surprised he missed the Auror’s entrance, given how heavy his step is. Then the footfalls stop, and Draco assumes he’s out of earshot. Until –

_Hold on._

For fuck’s sake, what is it now?

_I have an idea. You need someone to help you until your vision returns, don’t you?_

No. No, no, no, no. He has enough problems without an Auror hanging around him all day. He’ll get on. He’s a wizard; he just needs to Apparate home and stay there until his vision comes back.

_Calm down, Malfoy. I wasn’t suggesting shadowing you. I was- I’m an Animagus, did you know?_

Draco has no idea who this Auror _is._ Why on Earth would he know that he is an Animagus?

 _Right._ The Auror gives what sounds to Draco like a nervous laugh. _Right. Well, er- I am an Animagus. A dog. Fairly big one, too. What if I were to act as your guide dog, for the next little while? I could investigate what happened, and help you out when you need it._

Thanks, but no thanks. He doesn’t need that. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d be fine. He doesn’t need anyone’s help.

The word is bitter in his mouth.

_Everybody needs help, sometimes._

Not him. He hasn’t asked for help since he was handed his wand after the trials, four years ago. He had wanted it, but he had been quick to learn that help didn’t come without a cost. If it came at all. Funny that this Auror was here now, offering him help, years after he had given up on asking for it. Where was his help when his house was burned to the ground, vandalized and looted? When he was left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the words in his head to make a living? When he had to leave his old life and learn, completely by himself, how to pass as a Muggle in the only kind of neighborhood where he wasn’t at risk of being lynched when he went to mow his lawn?

Draco had given up on help a long time ago, and he took pride in the fact that he no longer needed it. Or wanted it.

_Uh, Malfoy? You alright? Sorry, I think you got lost in your head there for a second. So, will you consider it?_

To be honest, it is a tempting offer. He hates this darkness already, and thinking about navigating it alone for even a day is making him feel sick. The question is, does he hate it as much as he hates being helpless? Scratch that; he’s not helpless. If he lets this Auror follow him, it’d be for the Auror, because he wants to investigate the case. It’s not for Draco. Draco doesn’t need their help.

He’s not helpless.

_I didn’t say you were. I’ve never thought you were._

Never? Sorry, but does he know this Auror?

_I told you, we’ve met._

Well, since they apparently know each other, and if they’re going to be living together for the next five days, could he at least get a name? Or was he simply to refer to him as ‘mystery Auror’? Or perhaps the Auror would prefer ‘Draco’s bitch’, since he’s going to be a dog?

_Er- It’s… Harry. I’m Harry._

He doesn’t know any Harrys.

 _You know one_. The Auror’s reply sounds terse.

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know any Harrys. The only Harry he knows is- Oh. Hello, Potter.

***

Draco is discharged from the hospital the next day. He doesn’t know whether Potter is waiting for him inside the hospital room, but if he is, he hasn’t said anything. Which Draco hates. The first few times mediwitches and healers came in without announcing themselves, Draco let in on them something fierce. Now entry to his room is always preceded by a knock on the door, and an almost immediate announcement of who has entered. Not because they’re trying to be accommodating of Draco, he thinks bitterly, but because they’re petrified of him.

Potter though, if he is here, isn’t afraid of Draco. And Draco’s not afraid of him. Draco’s not afraid of anything. Fear is the wrong word for what he feels in this darkness. He’s starting to be able to orient himself without his vision, but the prickling feeling under his skin won’t go away. It’s the same feeling he used to get when he knew he was being watched, judged, followed. The same feeling that came from years of glancing over his shoulder, expecting an attack, hiding from the world.

Normally, he placates the feeling by scanning the area, counting places where someone could be hiding and making sure there is nobody around. But in this darkness, there is no relief, no relief from the constant itch of the unknown. Draco finds himself swiveling in his bed at the slightest noise, expecting someone to be there watching him. Waiting. It’s useless, and he realizes it, because there is nothing but darkness no matter where he turns.

Finally, after an eternity of being poked and prodded by healers and mediwitches, Draco is informed of his discharge by Potter’s voice, after a shuffle of papers and heavy boots near his bed. Draco relaxes muscles he hadn’t realized were tense. He’s relieved by the fact that Potter is here, though he can’t for the life of him pinpoint why. He hates being trapped in this room, he reasons. Potter’s arrival means they’re about to leave, and Draco is simply glad that he’s leaving St. Mungo’s and getting on with his life.

 _I’m standing to your left side,_ Potter announces.

Draco knows this, he still has ears, remember, and Potter’s voice is obnoxiously loud in the quiet hospital room.

_Right. Sorry. Do you need any help getting your stuff together before we leave?_

If he had any damn clue where his stuff was, he might be able to answer that question.

_It’s at the foot of your bed. Your wand and coinpurse are there with a shopping bag. Looks like some parchment and owl treats in there? Oh, and your robes._

Hand him the robes, so he can get himself dressed. Draco holds out his arm expectantly, knowing full well this puts his mark on display. He wonders if it makes Potter feel uncomfortable. It certainly does for everyone else he interacts with. Well. ‘Everyone’ being a sum total of three or four shopkeepers that he sees every month on his only trip into the wizarding world these days. Potter probably doesn’t even flinch. He probably views it as a challenge, is probably scowling at Draco like he used to when they were in school.

A second later, a heavy bundle is pushed against his chest. Draco runs his fingers along the fabric, feeling for the row of buttons down the front. Is Potter staring at him? He’s not going to get dressed with Potter staring at him.

 _Seriously? You really think I care?_ Now Draco doesn’t even need to imagine Potter’s scowl, he can hear it in his voice. He tries to bring up a picture of Potter’s face in his mind, and has the jarring realization that he has no idea what Potter looks like these days. The Potter in his head is a boy, the boy who spent seven years scowling in response to Draco’s jeers and taunts.

It occurs to Draco rather suddenly that, as this has all been playing out, he’s cast Potter as a schoolboy in his mind. From the second he found out that the Auror at his bedside was Potter, his mind pulled up the image of a scrawny boy with flyaway hair and Spell-o-taped glasses. The scowl fits so nicely on that boy’s face, and Draco wonders absently if it’s changed at all. He hasn’t actually seen Potter since the trials, four years ago. Surely he can’t look the same now. Draco doesn’t look the same. He looks older, sharper, more tired. He tries to fix the image of Potter in his mind, make him look older, more grown up, less angry, but it doesn’t work. The boy keeps returning, insistent.

_You know, I’ve turned around, Malfoy. You can get changed._

Thanks for informing him. Draco despairs to think how useful he’ll be as a guide dog, if he can’t even remember that a blind person can’t tell when someone’s turned around.

_Sorry. I’m not exactly used to narrating everything I do. You could try to be more understanding, you know._

He is understanding. He understands that Potter has taken it upon himself to save Draco’s life or some other such rot. He understands that Potter has no conception of when he isn’t wanted, and that he doesn’t have the good sense to bugger off like Draco wishes he would.

 _You’re going to be delightful to live with, aren’t you?_ Potter sounds amused, wry. Draco frowns, not expecting the tone, and not having a picture in his head to match it. He was expecting Potter to get upset, scowl, storm out. He wonders what sarcasm looks like on Potter’s face. It doesn’t suit the boy-Potter in his mind at all.

Getting dressed is surprisingly easy, a series of intuitive, familiar movements. If he’s being honest, he probably pulls his trousers on with his eyes still shut most mornings anyway. The heavy weight of his woolen robe is comforting on his shoulders. He knows the fabric is dove grey, he knows the buttons are jet black, but for the moment, he just appreciates the feeling of warm soft plush against his skin. Draco turns his head to the left, hoping that Potter is standing in what would be his line of vision. Potter can turn around now, Draco is decent. Well, he hopes he is. His hair is probably a fright.

_You remember mine in school, yeah? Yours looks impeccable to me._

A banshee’s hair would look impeccable, compared to Potter’s old mess as he remembers it. Draco does not take any consolation whatsoever in the fact that Potter has deemed his hair acceptable.

 _Touché._ The humor in Potter’s voice clashes with the angry boy glaring at him in his head.

Then again, this exchange is cordial, borderline amusing, and Draco has absolutely no frame of reference for what light banter with Potter should look like. In fact, the only time he had ever felt remotely unthreatened in Potter’s presence was when he returned Draco his wand after the trials. He hadn’t even been smiling then, just given Draco a tired shrug. But his eyes had been warm, open, and it was a look that Draco saw behind closed eyes far more often than he’d ever admit. Only that look didn’t fit here either, Potter’s tone was too carefree.  

_So how are we going to do this? Can you Apparate blind?_

Draco lives in a mostly Muggle neighborhood. He doubts his aim will be precise enough blind that he’ll wind up in his own back garden. With his luck, he’ll probably Apparate to the middle of the blasted street.

_A Muggle neighborhood, huh? So that’s why I could never find you after the fire at the Manor. There were rumors, but I guess I never believed them._

Oh, really? Draco sneers instinctively, guard flying up when Potter mentions his self-imposed exile from the wizarding world. Couldn’t see big bad Death Eater Malfoy stooping so low as to live with Muggles?

 _No._ Potter sounds genuinely taken aback. _I just thought it would be too difficult for someone raised as a wizard to live among Muggles happily. I know I never could, and I was raised without magic._

Potter’s admission makes Draco’s stomach twist oddly, and before he can dwell too long on the feeling, he lashes out with another barb. Why was Potter trying to find him, anyway? Was the Auror corps out hunting for war criminals again? Or was Potter stalking him like he did in sixth year, hoping he’d catch Draco doing something illegal?

 _Jesus, Malfoy, stop being so hostile! It had nothing to do with the Aurors. I was just looking for you to see if-_ Potter cuts himself off abruptly. _You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ve found you now. So, you live in a Muggle neighborhood. Is there an official apparition point nearby? I can’t Apparate somewhere I’ve never seen, but I can get us nearby and we can walk the rest of the way. Probably for the better, actually. You can meet Fluffy._

Fluffy? Who in the name of Merlin’s wand is _Fluffy?_

_My Animagus form. Long story._

Draco hopes he is some runty little cotton-ball dog like the one that used to follow his mother ‘round the house. Fluffy indeed.

_No such luck, Malfoy. The name is just Ron’s idea of a joke. Anyway, are you ready to get your arse out of bed?_

Wait. Before he gets Apparated to Merlin knows where-

_You know where, Malfoy. To your bloody house._

Be that as it may. Before they Apparate to the middle of nowhere, how on Earth is Potter going to guide him home? He can’t see, remember? He knows that Potter always seemed to leave the thinking part to Granger at school, but surely he has at least one brain cell of his own to understand that, as a _guide_ dog, he’d probably need a way to let Draco know where they were going?

Potter snorts. _Hermione will be pleased to know you think she’s smart._

He said no such thing!

_Mmhmm. And I occasionally do think things through for myself, as a matter of fact._

Something lands on Draco’s bed next to his legs with a _thunk_. Draco reaches his hand down to pick it up, running his fingers over what seems to be a band of worn leather.

_It’s a lead. You’ll have to put it on me, after I go dog._

Draco’s lips curve upward into a wide, wicked grin. He gets to collar and leash Harry Potter? Oh, that’s just too good. Maybe this was going to be worth it after all.

***

Potter Apparates clumsily. At some point during their travel, Draco reached out to steady himself on the nearest object, which just so happened to be Potter’s shirt. Absently, Draco wonders what colour it is. Maybe he’s wearing official Auror regalia, deep blue trimmed with black. The boy-Potter Draco remembers looks silly in Auror robes, so the picture in Draco’s mind puts him back in an oversized red jumper with denims worn through at the knees, the only outfit other than Gryffindor robes Draco’s ever seen him in. He forces down the urge to do something ridiculous like ask Potter what he’s wearing. He’s itching to, though. The picture in his mind is woefully incomplete, without his sight.

_Are you alright? Sorry about the rough Side-along. I’m still pretty crap at Apparating._

That would have been useful information to know _prior_ to their departure, wanker. So, where are they?

_Uh, the corner of Albert and Hartford, looks like. Nice neighborhood._

Quiet neighborhood. That’s what he was going for. Is there anyone around?

_Not a soul. Here- I’m going to change now, before anyone sees me. What’s your address?_

325 Bradbourne. It’s south off of Albert, first right. Will Potter’s tiny dog brain be able to find it? Actually, never mind. He’s probably got an intellectual advantage after he changes.

_Your confidence in me is inspiring, Malfoy, really. Here I go._

There’s a slight _whoosh_ of air at Draco’s side, and the warmth of Potter’s body vanishes instantly. Worried that he’s been left alone, Draco reaches an arm out, groping at his side to make sure the git hasn’t gone and Apparated. A loud bark sounds through the quiet street. Is that him? He’ll assume that second bark is an affirmative. A wet nose nudges into his palm, and Draco’s fingers move upward, tangling through thick, shaggy fur.

He’s got the lead in his other hand, and he only fumbles slightly, fastening the collar around Potter’s – Fluffy’s, really – neck. Is it too tight? Draco smirks after he asks the question. Oh, that’s right, he’s a dog. He can’t answer. Draco’s grin ripens. Shame, that.

His small victory doesn’t last for long; as soon as the end of the lead is wrapped around his wrist, Fluffy barks and tugs sharply against it, nearly sending Draco catapulting over his own feet.

It takes them half a block to get the hang of it. When the lead is too slack, Draco hasn’t a clue where he’s going, and he winds up running into a postbox. Of course, Fluffy takes this as a sign to start tugging almost viciously on the lead, and Draco has to break into a jog to keep up. When at last he feels like they’re moving in relative synchrony, Draco’s knees bump into something solid, and he finds himself sprawling over a miniature hill and landing ass up on the ground. What the fuck was that?

A wet nose prods into his cheek, the snuffle of dog breath loud beside his ear. Ugh, did he trip over Fluffy? Salazar Slytherin on a stick, this was just as useless of an idea as he thought it would be. He hopes he’s grumbling loudly enough for Fluffy to take note. Draco stands up slowly, trying to avoid tangling in Fluffy’s lead. They had better be close to his house, because he can’t take much more of this nonsense.

Fluffy barks a reply, and Draco swears it sounds almost gleeful. The bastard is probably happy that Draco nearly killed himself tripping over him.

As soon as he is righted, Draco shoots an arm out instinctively, trying to get his bearings and avoid barreling over another obstacle. His hand collides painfully against smooth wood. Was this his front door? Fluffy barks a reply, and Draco rolls his eyes.

Look, Fluffy. Draco doesn’t speak dog. For all he knows, that bark means that Fluffy has been distracted by some skanky poodle across the street and is about to take off running. How about he try to get back in touch with his – albeit limited – human intellect and attempt to convey an actual message with his obnoxious woofing? One bark for no, two for yes. Now, Draco will repeat the question. Is this his door?

Two barks.  

Draco sighs and stretches his hand out, feeling along the door for the knob. It doesn’t take more than a spell or two to unlock the door and dispel his wards, and he thanks his lucky stars that even without his sight he has his magic. He can’t imagine having to do this whole blind thing as a Muggle. The door swings open and Draco steps into his house. Almost immediately, the image of his home springs forward in his mind. He breathes in deeply, familiar air filling his lungs, and feels oriented for the first time since he woke up. He knows his house, knows exactly what is around him, what he should be seeing. To his left, his kitchen, small and well worn, with cherry red cabinets he thinks are gauche but has never had the bother to change. To his right, the sitting room, crammed from floor to ceiling with books and books and more books, most of which he’s never read. It’s a bit of a habit he has, collecting them.

It started after the Manor had been burned; the only room left even remotely unscathed was the library, and Draco had meticulously salvaged every book he possibly could. They were a comfort to him, after he found this little house and spent the last of the Malfoy money to buy it. They were literally his only possessions for quite some time, his only tie to his heritage, and he valued them intensely. So when he was walking around his new neighborhood weeks later and found a cardboard box of old books sitting on somebody’s front lawn, waiting to be picked up with the garbage, Draco couldn’t bear to leave them there. Books meant too much, were too special, and he couldn’t let them be lost. Since bringing home that first box, Draco is always on the lookout for abandoned novels, textbooks, anything that reminds him of pulling those books out of his library, cradling paper and ink between his hands and thinking that he’d always have them, that they were all he had left.

And so, here he is, with a sitting room full of unread books. Well, books currently unread. He will read them, eventually. Even the silly Muggle ones with the women swooning on the front, if for no other reason than because he’s dead curious as to how Muggle romance works.

Draco feels his cheeks heat when he realizes that Fluffy is seeing his books even though Draco can’t, and he can’t possibly imagine what the dog is thinking about Draco’s odd collection.

Ahead of them, in the entryway, is a narrow corridor, at the back of which is his bedroom and the tiny bath with the shower he never figured out how to use properly the Muggle way. He just casts a heating charm on the showerhead, instead of fiddling with those wretched taps and accidentally dousing himself with either ice water or water hot enough to boil pasta.

He wants to go through to his room and change out of yesterday’s clothing. Can Fluffy bring him through, then piss off long enough for Draco to change clothes?

Two barks, and the lead, still firmly in his grasp, pulls tight. Draco follows it forward, hoping the door to his bedroom is open so that he doesn’t slam into it. When Fluffy stops moving, Draco waves an arm out and smacks the side of his arm against ridged molding. The doorframe. The image in his mind fills in beige walls and dark wood flooring, an old armoire and nightstand in mismatched shades of brown. It fills in the mattress, set on the floor because he couldn’t be arsed to buy a bedframe, instead spending a small fortune on the goose-down duvet that is probably in an unmade heap in the middle of the bed.

He wonders what Potter thinks of his house. Probably pities Draco, living in nearly empty rooms that scream apathy. Probably thinks Draco has no life, no friends, walls devoid of photos or art and barely any furniture, with nothing but his books to keep him company. Worst part is, he’d hardly be wrong, would he?

A sharp bark brings him back to reality, and Fluffy tugs on the lead, pulling Draco into his room. Right, he was going to get changed. His armoire is to the left of his bed, how far forward is it? He’s pretty sure he can figure it out, the picture in his mind is vivid, but before he can stumble there Fluffy pulls him to the left. Draco takes clothing out of his armoire haphazardly, realizing that he has no way to tell if anything he’s holding matches.

The two barks that answer his musing make him frown. They do match, then? Two barks again, and Draco reconsiders his assertion that Fluffy is going to be nothing but a pain in the arse. Maybe this is going to work out, after all.

The responding bark is the gleeful one again, and Draco huffs. He didn’t mean that to be a compliment. Simply a statement that maybe he won’t resort to homicide before the week’s out. Now, is Fluffy going to bugger off so he can change?

Draco drops the lead and shoos his hand in the direction he hopes his door is. Otherwise he just looks odd, but then again, nothing about this situation doesn’t, so perhaps it would be fitting if he were shooing the dog onto his bed.

The picture his mind brings up for that story is uncomfortably familiar, and it twists something inside him. He can’t imagine boy-Potter in his bed, so instead he fills in one of his go-to men: the dark-haired, tawny-skinned Adonis that usually plays the starring role in Draco’s novels. Only at his most vulnerable, when he’s lonely or has had a few drinks too many, does he ever let that fantasy slip, until he sees a flash of green eyes or the distinctive scar on his Adonis’s forehead. Those details never make it into his novels. Those are just his.

Oh, shit. His novels. Thinking about his fictional Adonis reminds Draco that he has a deadline this Friday. He can’t be late; he’s never missed a deadline before. But how is he supposed to write when he can’t see his parchment? He sighs exasperatedly at himself when he realizes how obvious the answer is. He’ll just pick up a Dicta-quill in Diagon, problem solved. Well, except for the part where he has to get to Diagon Alley in complete darkness.

Fluffy! Draco listens closely and is pleased that he can hear the click and shuffle of paws against hardwood. When the bark announces that Fluffy has returned to his side, he reaches down to feel for the lead dangling around the Animagus’ scruffy neck.

If Draco Apparates them to the Leaky - and yes, he’s sure he can, he doesn’t need to worry about being off a few meters in a wizarding establishment like he does in his neighborhood – could Fluffy help him run a few errands? He needs to go to the stationers and find a Dicta-quill, so that he can get on with his work.

When Fluffy barks the affirmative, Draco crouches down to sling an arm around the dog’s neck. Fluffy’s fur is soft and inviting, and Draco absently runs his fingers through it, trying his best to visualize exactly where he is and exactly where he’s headed. He dallies for a second, distracted by Fluffy’s nuzzling against his cheek, his wet nose pressing near Draco’s ear. His lips quirk as he pushes the overenthusiastic dog down, not quite relenting his petting. It’s nice, actually, and he forgets for a second that he’s stroking his childhood arch-nemesis.

In fact, he only realizes how close he’s gotten to cuddling Fluffy when they snap through space to what he hopes is the Leaky. He jumps to his feet abruptly, shoving Fluffy away. He doesn’t know what the Animagus is thinking, but whatever it is, it’s wrong. Draco definitely was _not_ being affectionate. He just didn’t want to deal with the repercussions of accidentally Splinching the Wizarding world’s darling, is all. Had to be close to Apparate, otherwise he wouldn’t have touched Fluffy with a ten foot wand.

Draco shakes his head to clear his thoughts as Fluffy barks, tugging the lead forward. He shoves his free hand in the pocket of his jumper, trying to forget what had just happened. Trying to forget that for a second, pressed against the solid weight of Fluffy’s side and warmed by his fur, he almost felt content. Safe.

And that?

That is absolutely preposterous.

***

The bell to the stationer’s rings merrily as Draco and Fluffy cross the threshold.

_Draco, dear? Weren’t you just in a few days ago for parchment? Surely you can’t have run out already! And who’s this handsome little fellow with you?_

Draco recognizes the voice of Natasha, the middle-aged witch who mans the shop. She’s one of the few vendors who doesn’t outright refuse him service. His trips to Diagon are always planned meticulously, so that he only needs to go once a month, at most, and can beeline between the shops where he knows he’ll be served. Only apparently he wasn’t careful enough, since his last trip had landed him in this mess.

He’s had a bit of an accident, actually, and he can’t really see.

_Can’t see? Oh, my, you poor thing. I read about it in the paper, I did. I do hope it’s only temporary._

It is; he’s taking potions to correct it. But nonetheless, he has work to do and he’s not entirely able to write by himself at present.

_Oh, of course! I’ve a good set of Dicta-quills, but you really must choose either speed or accuracy. Unfortunately most of them can only handle one of the two._

Accuracy. Definitely accuracy. He has no way to edit his work, let alone fix the menace of an inaccurate quill. Before Natasha can answer, they are interrupted by a bark at Draco’s side. Draco huffs, not quite laughing but definitely amused. Dogs can’t edit English, _Fluffy_. He sing-songs the phrase, baiting Potter with the fact that he’s well on his way to blowing his cover already.

_Fluffy? What an adorable name. And I can see why you’ve named him that!_

Draco is caught by a sudden fit of glee as he realizes that Natasha can probably describe Fluffy to him. Does his name suit him, then? How come? Is he poofy and ridiculous? Some poncy poodle, perhaps?

_Have you never seen him? Well, he’s certainly a handsome devil. Large, and black. Beautiful green eyes, too._

Surely there must be something a little girly about him. Come on, _Fluffy_?

_It’s that shaggy fur, dear. He looks like he’s got some sheepdog in him, maybe? I’m afraid I don’t know much about dogs._

Draco sighs, just the tiniest bit dramatically, as Natasha squashes his last hopes of emasculating Potter. No matter. The quill, so he can be on his way. He hears Natasha shuffling about, and lets Fluffy pull him forward to hand her his coin purse. The exchange is smoother than Draco would have expected, with both the witch and Fluffy guiding him through motions he previously never paid any mind to. It’s only moments before he and Fluffy are out the door, with Fluffy awaiting Draco’s next instruction.

They’re going to need to find a place where Fluffy can transform, since Draco can’t Apparate himself home in case he misses and lands in his Muggle neighbor’s rosebush. Fluffy doesn’t bark to answer, so Draco gives the lead a little tug. Fluffy? Did he hear Draco? Can he get them somewhere they can Apparate from?

Instead of a bark, Fluffy growls, low, at the back of his throat.

What’s that supposed to mean? For fuck’s sake, Fluffy, Draco’s hardly happy about this arrangement either. There’s no need to get all growly about –

Fluffy barks loudly, and it’s sharp enough to stop Draco’s words dead in their tracks. Is something wrong?

Fluffy growls again, menacing and angry. Draco doesn’t have time to process the sound before he’s shoved to the side, hard, and tumbles over himself to the cobbled street. His head smacks against cold stone, and the shock of the impact overwhelms him. He vaguely registers a shouted hex and cringes, expecting another hit.

Only it never comes.

Draco’s heart is pounding, adrenaline thick in his veins as he tries to understand the cacophony of shouts, screams, and scuffles around his head. Fluffy? What’s happened? Fluffy?

There’s no response, and Draco is seized with inexplicable terror at the thought that something might have happened, that… That Fluffy pushed him out of the way and took the hex himself.

Fluffy? Fluffy, for fuck’s sake, answer him!

_Malfoy! Oi! Stay down, you idiot!_

It’s not Potter’s voice; it’s another he doesn’t recognize. Who is it? Who’s there? Where’s Fluffy?

_Stay the fuck down, Malfoy!_

Draco wants to shout back at the new voice, to demand that he get answers, but he’s interrupted by an almighty boom. It’s a noise he recognizes, but hasn’t heard since… Well, since the battle. The sound of stone cracking, falling, bricks landing hard against the street.

_We’ve got him! Harry, send your Patronus to Kingsley!_

_My little girl! He’s hit my little girl!_

_Get a healer to that woman!_

_Hold him down! Forget that, just hold him down!_

_Where’s Malfoy? Fuck, is he alright?_

Draco recognizes the last voice. Potter! He’s over here. What the fuck happened? What’s going on? The mess of voices is louder than he is, and he doesn’t know whether Potter can hear him.

_Here, Malfoy. I’m right here. There was an attack._

A hand grabs Draco’s shoulder, wrenching him back down to the ground so that he’s practically lying against the sidewalk. An attack? On whom? Draco struggles against the firm grip, trying in vain to stand up.

_On you! Stop moving, Malfoy, you’re bleeding._

Fuck, is he? Where from? A hand touches his knee and he hisses in pain. That hurt like a bitch.

_Sorry. It doesn’t look hexed. I think it’s just from the fall. Here, let me…_

Draco feels the tingling sensation of a healing spell, and the pressure of sure fingers deftly checking the rest of his leg.

_Oi! Mate, what in buggery do you think you’re doing?_

_I’m helping Malfoy, Ron, what does it look like I’m doing?_

_It looks like you’re getting blood all over him, is what it looks like. Did you get hit with a Confundus or something? Get your arse to the healer!_

Was that the Weasel? And Potter was hurt? What happened?

_Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Ron, shut up, I can take care of myself. I need to get Malfoy somewhere safe first, he hit his head, and I think he’s seriously hurt._

_He’s hurt?_ He’s _hurt? You nearly just died taking a curse for the prat!_

Harry took a curse for him? What curse did he take?

_Why the fuck would you care, Malfoy?_

_Ron, shut_ up! _Can we please not do this right now? I’m fine, Malfoy. Come on, I’m going to help you up, and we’re going to Apparate back to your place._

Draco lets Potter hoist him up, the full brunt of his soreness hitting him as he leans into Potter’s frame. He feels vulnerable, and he hates it. He wants to shove Potter away, hard. But Potter’s grip is so assured, and Draco is so tired and scared and he still can’t see a bloody thing. So he lets himself be led away, vaguely registering the low rumble of Potter’s voice in his ear, telling him what happened and where they’re headed.

This time, Potter Apparates them directly to his back stoop, guiding Draco to his bed and helping him lie down on top of his duvet. The darkness is doing nothing to help Draco’s rapidly building feelings of nausea and confusion. Neither is more overwhelming than the crushing tiredness he suddenly feels. He feels weak against his mattress. He’ll just close his eyes, then. Take a nap. He needs to relax, anyway, he feels rather ill. 

_Malfoy? Malfoy?_

Potter shakes his shoulder lightly, but Draco only curls deeper onto his mattress. He’s so _tired_ , and everything is so dark…

_Draco?_

Potter’s use of his given name is jarring, especially in the soft tone he uses. What is it? He’d like to take a nap, please.

_I can’t let you do that, Draco._

Why not? And why is he calling him Draco? Potter doesn’t call him Draco, he calls him Malfoy, because he hates him. Remember?

_I needed to get your attention. And I don’t hate you._

Then why call him Malfoy? His name is Draco. Can he take a nap now?

_You can’t take a nap, Draco. I think you concussed yourself. You can’t fall asleep for a little while; just until I’m sure your head is alright. Do you feel nauseous at all?_

Mmm. Yeah. Queasy. But it’s okay, because he’s going to take a nap and he’ll feel better when he wakes up.

_Sorry, Draco, you definitely bashed your head good. Do you know where you are right now?_

In his bed. Was Potter in his bed too? It’s been a while since there was someone else in his bed…

_Oh Merlin, you’re so going to hate yourself when you feel better. I’m next to your bed. Do you remember what happened in Diagon Alley?_

They were at the stationer’s, and there was a lot of yelling. The Weasel was there, and Fluffy knocked him out of the way of a… Draco stops mid-sentence. Wait, Potter took a curse for him!

  _You remember? That’s great. That’s really great._

Was Potter okay? What curse did he take?

_Nothing permanent. I’ve taken worse._

Oh. That’s good, then. Not that Draco would care if Potter died. But he’d rather it wasn’t on his watch. Doesn’t fancy being public enemy number one for killing the savior. But if Potter is fine and Draco is fine, can Draco take a nap? He’s not sure if it’s the blindness or the concussion, but he feels like he’s spinning again and he doesn’t like it.

_How about we just keep talking for a bit longer, yeah?_

Draco doesn’t have anything to talk about. They’re enemies, remember? They don’t do small talk. What would they talk about? The weather? Puddlemere’s latest match? Oh, ta, Potter, perhaps they can reminisce about the old days over tea. Remember Draco’s dear old dad, Potter? Or that wonderful houseguest the Malfoys had, the one who tried to kill Potter at least seven times?

_Good to know brain damage doesn’t affect your charm._

Potter’s the one who wanted to chit chat. There’s a beat of silence, and Draco entertains the hope that Potter’s taken the hint and left him be to fall asleep.

_It’s colder than you’d expect for this time of year, isn’t it? I’m not much for winter, myself. I hate being cooped up indoors, and I hate being cold. Can’t wait for spring to really roll in, so I can get back outside. I’ve a little property by the beach, and as soon as it gets warm enough I’m off like a bullet every weekend._

Draco blinks, fearing that Potter was Confunded after all. What the fuck is he on about?

_You asked about the weather, didn’t you? See, we can talk. And Puddlemere’s last match wasn’t spectacular. I mean, they’re pretty alright this season, but then again, they have Anderson in the Keeper’s spot. I’d say the Magpies are the team we should really be watching out for. Definitely underdogs, but they’ve got a shot at the cup, don’t you think?_

Draco lets out a startled huff of laughter. Well, would you look at that? Apparently they can have a conversation.

_Don’t see why you thought we couldn’t._

Draco’s chuckling gives way to full blown laughter. Potter sounds so put out, almost as though he’s pouting about Draco’s reluctance to talk to him. So, they were going to talk, huh? First of all, then, the Magpies may be holding their own, but they don’t have a hope in hell at championships.

_Oh, come on. Have you seen their Seeker’s form this season?_

If by form Potter means arse, then yes, Draco has seen it, he has spent the majority of a game staring at it.

_Classy, Draco._

Hey, he’s only mortal.

_Bit too perky for my tastes, though._

Too perky? Is there a such thing as- Draco’s defense of the seeker’s glorious rear is stopped dead in its tracks when he realizes the implication of what Potter has just said.

Potter was staring at the Seeker’s arse?

_What was that you just said? I’m only mortal too, you know._

Surprisingly. He was certain the Minister for Magic was going to deify Potter so that the wizarding public could have their darling savior around forever.

_Not sure Kingsley has that authority. And even if he did, immortality is a whole sack of hippogriff dung I hope I never hear about again._

Hey! Don’t change the subject. Immortality is way less interesting than the fact that Harry Poofter spends his Quidditch matches checking out the Seeker’s arse. The very _male_ Seeker’s arse.

 _Yes, Draco, the very_ male _Seeker’s arse._ Potter sounds highly amused, which completely ruins Draco’s glimmer of hope that he’s finally managed to find something to embarrass Potter with. _And good job with the name, there, never heard that before._

Really? It’s so bloody obvious. In fact, he’s a bit disappointed in himself that he never thought of it in school. Think of the badges he could have made!

_That was sarcasm, you twat._

A minute ago it was Draco, and now it’s back to the petty name-calling. Really, Potter, Draco thought they had something special!

_You just called me Harry Poofter!_

With love and affection. From one homo to the other.

_You are undeniably one of the strangest people I’ve ever met._

Says the Auror with nothing better to do than turn into a dog and follow a blind ex-convict around. Maybe it’s because he has a big gay crush on Draco or something. Got a thing for bad boys, has he, Potter?

_You were never a convict, Draco. Full pardon, remember? And if I had a thing for bad boys, I wouldn’t be pining for a recluse who hasn’t stepped a toe out of line since he was 17._

So Potter _was_ pining for him, then.

_I… Don’t twist my words. I just meant that you’re not a criminal, yeah?_

Draco snorts. Try telling the rest of the world that.

_I have._

Didn’t stop them burning down his house.

Potter sighs heavily, and Draco feels the mattress shift beside him as Potter climbs next to him on the bed. He can feel Potter’s presence beside him, and his mind is trying to fill in the rest. Is he sitting, a watchful eye on Draco’s prone form? Is he reclining, head against the wall, eyes shut as he tries to relax tense muscles?

 _I’m sorry about that._ Potter’s voice sounds rough, thick.

What’s he sorry for? He didn’t do it, did he?

_No, but I should have… I wanted Aurors on your house after the trial. I never wanted to let you hole up alone in that house. It was dangerous. I should have pushed harder._

Draco frowns. Potter makes it sound like they were friends or something. They haven’t even spoken since the trials. Why would Potter be trying to keep him safe? The mattress shifts again, and Draco feels Potter move to stand up.

_Don’t worry about it._

Draco reaches out to snag Potter’s arm before he has a chance to leave. He grabs Potter by the shirtsleeve and tugs him back to the mattress, albeit weakly. He still feels confused, and a bit sluggish, and maybe that’s why nothing Potter has just said makes any sense. When Potter finally does speak, it hardly helps the situation.

_You’re the only person I know who can take me from laughing to wanting to punch things in ten seconds flat._

So why would he want to keep Draco safe? What game was Potter playing?

 _No game._ Potter’s voice is tight and guarded. After a long beat of silence, his next words are murmured, so quiet Draco barely picks them up. _Do you remember the fire?_

Draco’s hand tightens on Potter’s sleeve. Potter must see his anxiety, because he tugs Draco towards him on the mattress, trying to comfort him.

 _You’re shivering._ Potter pulls Draco even closer, flush against himself. Draco registers that his feet are brushing Potter’s ankle, that Potter is shorter than him, and he wonders if he’s still as scrawny as the boy-Potter is in his mind. _How’s your head feeling? You shouldn’t be shivering._

It’s not his head. At least, he doesn’t think it is. He’s not cold, either. It’s the fire. Draco doesn’t like fire. He doesn’t like thinking about it, seeing it… He doesn’t like it at all.

_Sorry. I meant- Do you remember being on that broom? You were hanging on so tightly. I thought… I remember thinking, how could I hate him? How could I hate him, when he’s more scared than I am?_

Potter could have hated him because he was awful.

 _You were awful because you were scared. I saw you up on that tower. I saw you in that fire. I saw how scared you were. I haven’t hated you since then. And I… I guess…_ Potter pauses, long and drawn out. _I don’t know._

What doesn’t he know?

_I guess I just needed to make sure you were okay._

He’s not going to be okay. He doesn’t deserve to be okay.

_Stop that! Fuck, Draco. You do deserve to be okay. You deserve to be safe, and I’m going to try my best to make sure you are._

Draco doesn’t respond for a second, the throbbing in his head compounded by the heaviness of their conversation. Instead of speaking, he holds out his left arm, lets it drop towards Potter.

_This mark doesn’t define you as a person._

It does. It’s who he is, it’s who he was. It doesn’t matter how much he regrets it, how much he wishes he could make it all go away.

Potter’s fingers splay across Draco’s forearm, and Draco fights the desire to yank his arm back and recoil. What is Potter doing?

 _It’s just skin_. He says, instead of responding to Draco’s question.

Of course it is, what did he expect? Draco’s skin itches where Harry is tracing lazy fingers,  and though he can’t see it, his mind maps the steady progress of Harry’s fingers along the ink.

_I don’t know, actually. I just... Here, look, give me your hand._

Draco pushes his right palm towards Potter, a part of him surprised at his lack of hesitation.

Calloused fingers wrap around Draco’s hand, although Potter’s other hand doesn’t still against Draco’s marked arm. Draco’s fingers curl loosely around Potter’s, but Potter unfurls them one by one, drawing Draco’s hand towards himself until his fingers brush bare skin. It’s then that Draco realizes he’s moved close, so close he can feel the heat of Potter’s breath against his face. 

Draco splays his fingers across the proffered skin, running them lightly down what he can feel is Potter’s chest, warm to his touch. Potter draws Draco even closer, pressing his hand more solidly against him until Draco can feel a heartbeat, strong, thudding under smooth skin. This is definitely not boy-Potter’s chest, this is the chest of a man, strong and sure, of a hero, a protector, a guardian.

The tip of Draco’s thumb catches on something sunken and tight, abrupt against the feeling of unblemished muscle. Draco drags his fingers along the odd patch, following his thumb until he traces a large oval of what feels like toughened scar tissue. 

If that’s a tattoo, he hates to break it to Potter, but something went horribly wrong. Potter doesn’t answer for a second, and Draco wonders what the mark is, how Potter got it, wonders why Potter isn’t talking. When Potter finally does speak, it’s hoarse, gravelly, thick with a tone Draco recognizes, but didn’t expect from Potter.

_It’s not a tattoo. It’s a scar. Mine feel different from my skin. Mine feel… Present. I expected yours to be the same._

It’s very present. It doesn’t let him forget. It’s always present, always on his arm,. Always there for everyone to see.

_But you can’t see it now._

Doesn’t matter. He still knows it’s there.

_How?_

Potter’s touch hasn’t wavered, and Draco can see the pattern he’s tracing in his mind, sees it as vividly as he sees the mark.

That’s how he knows it’s still there. It’s in his mind, whether his eyes work or not. It’s in his mind, and he will never get rid of it.

_I wouldn’t want to get rid of my scars._

Not even that eyesore on his forehead? Draco feels a huff of breath against his cheek, a little chuckle.

_Maybe that one. But not the others. They remind me, yeah? It hurts sometimes, but I need to remember. I don’t know. It’s probably mental._

No. It’s not. Potter is, Draco won’t dispute that, but what he’s just said isn’t. There is a long silence, and Draco tries to pull up Potter’s face in his mind, to colour the silent darkness with some kind of picture. But his hand is still resting against Potter’s chest, and the broad expanse under his fingers is so far from the Potter in his mind that it’s shattered the illusion.

Can he feel Potter’s face? The question startles him, even though he’s the one who’s asked it. He hadn’t meant to ask it out loud. He draws his hand away from Potter, suddenly hyperaware of how close they are to one another, of how gentle Potter’s touch is on his skin.

_Feel my face?_

Yes. He’s not loony. It’s just that, in his head, he still sees Potter as a schoolboy. Only, that doesn’t fit. He thinks Potter is smiling sometimes, or being kind, but the Potter in his mind is just a frowning little twat. It’s frustrating, because he wants to get the image right. He wants to be able to imagine it, since he can’t see it, but Potter is making it all wrong. Because Potter isn’t a boy anymore, is he? The picture in his head is so very wrong, and it’s just getting worse, so he needs to fix it before he goes mad.

Potter’s hand leaves Draco’s arm and Draco misses the touch immediately. But it’s back, this time around his wrist, tugging his left hand up and resting it gently on a stubbled cheek. Draco pulls his other arm free from Potter’s loose grasp and brings it up to bracket Potter’s jaw. He lets his fingers trail up Potter’s nose, tracing the bump in the middle. Was that from when Draco broke it? Potter hums the affirmative.

Potter’s not wearing glasses, Draco realizes belatedly.

_Haven’t done for some time. Muggle corrective surgery, actually. It was Hermione’s idea._

Draco wishes he could see Potter without the glasses.

_You will. Your vision will be back soon, and then you can see what I look like._

Like he’ll be around when Draco’s vision returns.Draco feels Potter tense, the muscles in his jaw twitching under Draco’s touch.

_I’ll be here if you want me here._

Draco frowns, his hands falling away from Potter’s face. Something’s changed, he realizes suddenly, and it’s scary and overwhelming and thrilling all at the same time. Sometime between waking up blind and now, the tension between them has swelled and broken.

All that’s left now is a tentative truce, thickened with an intensity that frightens Draco. He shifts closer to Potter, holding his breath and pushing whatever is between them out into the open. Potter lets out a shaky breath into Draco’s ear, brings his arm up to card his fingers through Draco’s hair. Draco is shaking, the silence in the room laden with unspoken emotion. Potter’s fingers are shaking too, and Draco realizes that whatever just happened, there’s no coming back from it.

Draco takes a deep breath, letting it go in shuddering puffs.

Yes.

Yes. He wants Potter to be there when his vision returns.

_***_

Draco doesn’t remember falling asleep. He and Potter talked for a very long time, trading stories in hushed whispers and tired, slurring speech, teasing and joking and making silly innuendo. Whenever he did start to drift off, the prat would poke him and tell him he had to stay awake a little longer. He’s not sure when Potter finally let him sleep, or how long he’d been out, when he’s woken up by a gentle shake. Opening his eyes to nothing, he sits bolt upright, his heart racing.

 _Calm down._ The hand that shook him awake is now rubbing circles on his back. Draco takes gulps of air as his mind catches up with him, nausea fading as he orients himself to the darkness.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to waking up blind.

_You don’t need to. It’ll only be a few days before your vision is back. How’re you feeling?_

Like he’s been trounced by a manticore. What time is it?

_Early morning. Just past seven, I reckon. You were out for a while._

Seven? He had slept all through the night?

_Yeah. I was worried for a bit, actually. You’re not supposed to sleep for a while after you’ve been concussed, in case you slip into a coma. I had to keep checking to make sure you were breathing._

Draco’s stomach flips as he imagines Harry watching over him through the night, stroking his hair and bending his head to hear Draco’s breathing.  He shakes his head to clear it. Evidently his brain is still addled from the fall.

_Anyway, it’s a good job you woke up now. Ron wants us at the Ministry for questioning._

Questioning? About the attack? Do Aurors normally wait until the day after an attack to gather statements?

 _Erm, not really. We should have gone yesterday, but you were a little out of it. Then you fell asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you up. You looked like you could use the extra rest._ Draco might be imagining it, but he swears that Potter sounds embarrassed.

Right. Well, Draco has a bit of work to do before they leave, then. Could Potter get him the quill they bought yesterday, and a stack of parchment?

_Sure. Yeah._

Draco hears Potter’s footsteps as he leaves the room, and falls back heavily against his mattress. He doesn’t need his sight to feel the absolutely fucking awkward tension between he and Potter.

Whatever the fuck that was yesterday, he was waiting for the moment when he would regret letting his guard down around Potter. No, forget letting his guard down; he’d actively pushed, picked at the scab, even though he knew it’d have no happy ending.

He’d like to brush it off as a moment of weakness, that he only cozied up next to Potter because he was just tired and needy after being injured, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit it was more than that. It was Potter, like it always was. Like it always had been. It was Potter, strong, righteous Potter. The only person who didn’t cower when Draco gave him shit, who met his snark with an even keel, who wanted to see Draco be safe, be better. Even though they weren’t friends. Even though they were enemies.

Potter, who had saved Draco’s life more times than he cared to count.

He’d be lying to deny that he wanted Potter. And he’d be lying to himself if he thought that there was even a remote chance that being with Potter was a feasible option. Potter was an Auror, the wizarding world’s poster boy. Draco was a recluse at best, a criminal at worst.

Draco was nothing.

_Hey, here’s the stuff you wanted. I’m going to go make us some breakfast. You drink coffee, right? With cream and sugar?_

How’d he know that?

_It’s how you used to take it at school, yeah?_

They had never sat together at school.

Draco feels as though he knows the answer to his unasked question already. He knows Potter watched him during their sixth year. He was always keenly aware of people watching him, Potter especially.

_I just noticed. I’ll be back in a bit, yeah?_

Potter leaves again, with hurried steps, and Draco knows the man is embarrassed. They should probably talk, about everything, but knowing them, Draco is pretty sure they won’t.

Sighing, he pulls the parchment onto his lap and sets the dicta-quill going with a lazy wave of his wand. Draco clears his throat and dives right in where he had left off before the accident.

Ahem. Stefan pulled back from the fierce kiss to push Eamon onto the bed, crawling over him, bending to mark Eamon’s neck while his hands wandered lower. No, that’s not right. Crawling over him and bending to mark Eamon’s neck. Better. Hm. Eamon wasted no time to pull at Stefan’s fly until he held his cock in his hand. Eamon wanted to swallow Stefan to the root, to take his cock into his mouth until he was begging for more. Actually, how about… He… He wanted to flip Stefan over and tease him with his tongue, wanted to tease him until he was ready to take Eamon’s rock hard-

_CRASH._

What the fuck was that? Draco tosses the parchment aside and turns his head towards the door out of habit.

 _Sorry._ Potter’s voice sounds strangled. _Dropped a plate._ Forget strangled, Potter is practically squeaking.

What in Merlin’s name is wrong with him?

_I didn’t mean to… Erm… Interrupt whatever you were doing. Sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in. I’ll just… Erm. Leave you to it?_

Draco slaps a hand to his forehead as he realizes that Potter probably thinks he was getting his rocks off or something. Oh, for the love of… He was working, Potter! For fuck’s sake, does the word cock normally make Potter squeal like a thirteen year old girl?

 _Working?_ Potter’s voice still sounds unnaturally high.

Yes. He’s an author. He writes books. Gay romance novels, to be specific. He publishes under a penname. What did Potter think the quill was for?

_I use a quill at work, and I’m pretty I’ve never written the word ‘cock’ with it._

Well, look at that, the boy can say it after all. Composure regained, then?

 _I didn’t lose my composure!_ Harry is obviously grousing again, and Draco snickers.

Oh please, he was inches away from running out of the house screaming.

_I just didn’t expect to come back in here and hear you talking about… Going on about…_

Rimming?

 _What?_ Potter squeaks.

That’s what he was going on about when Potter dropped the plate. Rimming. Or was it the blowjob?

_Now you’re just doing it on purpose._

Damn straight he is. He really wishes he could see how many shades of red Potter has managed to turn in the past five minutes.

_I’m sure whatever you’re imagining isn’t too far from the truth._

Potter is a prude. Draco is entirely too gleeful about this revelation. So that Gryffindor properness extends to the bedroom, then? Oh, how disappointing. He always imagined that those goody-two-shoes would be beyond kinky behind closed doors.

_Yeah, yeah. Make fun of me. Just remember, I’m holding your coffee, and you can’t see me._

So?

Potter makes an exaggerated noise like he’s about to spit on something. Draco feels his face drain of colour. He wouldn’t.

 _You’ll just have to trust my Griffyndor properness, yeah?_ The teasing lilt to Potter’s voice is infuriating.

Potter! It’s Draco’s turn to squawk a little.

 _Draco._ Potter replies evenly, his voice dripping with amusement.

He’s not spitting in Draco’s coffee, is he? He wouldn’t spit in Draco’s coffee! Draco hears Potter move forward and sets what Draco assumes is a rattling tray down in front of him.

_Coffee, toast, eggs, and beans._

With a side of spit?

Potter laughs brightly. Draco reaches out and feels for a piece of toast, but instead finds himself with fingers covered in something wet and slimy.

_Shit. That was probably a bad idea. Here, let me get you a serviette._

Ugh. Draco accepts the cloth that Potter is holding out to him, wiping off whatever is on his fingers. It isn’t spit, is it?

Potter laughs again. _Just beans._

Ugh.

_Want me to help?_

How on earth was Potter going to help? Spoon feed him?

_Sure._

Well then, get on with it.

He half expects Potter to shove a spoon of beans in his face to get it over with quickly. The last thing he expects is for Potter to tilt Draco’s face towards him, his hand resting gently on Draco’s chin. The sudden shift in mood is palpable as Potter’s thumb brushes against the corner of Draco’s mouth. Draco parts his lips slightly in response, leaning towards Potter’s touch. Potter’s thumb drags down, lingering along Draco’s bottom lip.

_Toast?_

Draco nods, holding his breath. He feels Potter’s thumb pull away, his hand still cupping Draco’s chin. Draco feels a piece of toast against his top lip, and his tongue darts out to catch the crumbs before they fall. He takes a small bite, closing his eyes as he chews and swallows, slowly.

Draco’s teasing on purpose, they both know it, and Draco knows it’s working. He can hear Potter’s breath go ragged, can hear him shuffling beside the bed like he’s nervous.

Come here.

He pulls Potter towards him on the bed, feeling the bed dip as Potter comes closer.

 _What are we doing?_ It’s a whisper, full of nerves.

This.

Without another word, Draco closes the space between them, one hand at the back of Potter’s neck, pulling him down to meet his lips.

It’s nothing short of electric. Potter only hesitates for a second before taking charge of the kiss. Draco lets him, but only for a moment, before pushing back and rolling them over on the bed.

There’s a crash against the floor, probably the breakfast tray falling off the bed, but neither of them stop. Potter’s fingers are tangled in Draco’s hair, his other hand gripping Draco’s hip so tightly he’s sure it will bruise. Draco breaks their kiss to nip along Potter’s jawline, and the other man moans and turns his head, allowing Draco to trail his tongue down the length of his neck.

Draco is relying entirely on touch, and his hands are everywhere at once. Potter groans as Draco’s hand finally finds his prick, hard and straining against the zip of his fly.

_Shit, Draco._

Draco hums, stroking Potter through his trousers. He knew Potter had a big gay crush for him.

_I’d say- ah! I’d say it’s not only me with the big gay crush._

Well, Draco never said anything about himself, now did he? He would have gladly admitted to his big gay crush on Potter, had Potter only asked.

_Draco?_

Yes?

_Shut up._

Pfft. Unlikely. If they were going to do this, then Draco reserved full rights to- mmph!

Draco is cut off by Potter’s mouth on his again, and strong arms around him. Potter kisses exactly as Draco thought he might. Like he’s trying to hold back, but failing miserably, putting his whole self into a kiss filled with a raw eagerness that fits him perfectly. When Potter breaks the kiss this time, his mouth finds Draco’s ear almost immediately, breath curling around it as Draco continues to tease Potter through his trousers.

 _I want you to… Christ, Draco!_ Potter yelps as Draco unzips him and yanks, hard, on Potter’s trousers.

Get these off, and then we can talk about what Potter wants.

_Tit for tat, Draco._

If that’s the way he’s going to be about it. Draco sits up on his haunches and pulls his jumper off, rolling away from Potter to tear off his own trousers. He hears Potter undressing beside him, and smirks. Naked but for his briefs, he feels back along the bed until his hand falls to Potter’s now bare chest.

Better?

 _Much._ Potter’s voice is laced with want, and Draco is only too happy to oblige him. He kisses down Potter’s chest, fingers playing along the waistband of Potter’s pants.

_Fuck, you’re a tease._

Not teasing. Foreshadowing. Draco dips his fingers lower, pulling Potter’s pants down as he does.

He really wants to see what he’s doing right now. Wants to see what Potter looks like, wants to map every inch of him in case he never gets this chance again.

_Maybe it’s better that you can’t see._

What’s that supposed to mean? Draco nuzzles the juncture between Potter’s thigh and groin, squeezing his prick as it twitches in Draco’s palm.

_When I go dog, I can- oh! Smell everything so much better. It makes everything different. I can’t touch things, not really, without fingers, but its worth it because of- of the smells. When you lose one sense, it’s easier to focus on others. Maybe you can- ah! Maybe you should enjoy that._

That makes sense.

_I hope that pun was intended._

Fuck you, Potter.

_That’s the idea. If you ever- ah! Get on with it, I mean. Forget that you can’t see. Just focus on feeling. Feel yourself touching me. Feel yourself- fuck! Fucking me. Please?_

Potter’s plea sends a frisson of heat low into Draco’s belly.

Roll over, Potter.

_Why?_

I want to feel you.

Draco’s hands move from Potter’s thighs to his firm ass, pressing kisses into the small of his back and moving lower. Potter cries out, pushing backwards until he’s on his knees with Draco above him. He’s lost in the feeling of Potter’s body pliant under his, lost in the sounds of Potter reduced to begging for him to hurry, fuck him, now, faster, harder, please.

And as he pushes into Potter’s tight heat, for the first time since he woke up, it doesn’t matter that he’s blind.

It doesn’t matter, because Potter was right. Draco might not be able to see, but instead, he can feel.   

He feels smooth skin, firm over tightened muscles.

He feels beaded sweat, smears it across the broad plane of Potter’s shoulders.

He feels coarse hair on Potter’s belly, runs a hand to follow it until he feels Potter’s prick, thick and heavy and hot in his palm.

He feels Potter’s hand clasp around his own, holding it tightly, calluses rough and fingers strong.

He knows he isn’t going to last long, every muscle in his body vibrating for release. With a hoarse shout, he empties himself into Potter, falling forward and catching himself in time to bury his nose into soft hair at the base of Potter’s neck. He breathes in deeply, smelling sweat and musk and the faintest hint of cologne. Potter’s release follows seconds later, and he pulls Draco down with him as he collapses onto the mattress. Draco rolls off of Potter, and the two lie shoulder to shoulder, panting as they catch their breath.

_That was…_

Yeah. It was.

_No, really. That was… Are you going to make fun of me if I say that was as amazing as I thought it would be?_

Apparently he literally fucked Potter’s brains out, if he has to ask that. Of _course_ Draco is going to make fun of him.

 _Fuck off, Draco._ There’s no heat in Potter’s tone, just amusement. Potter nudges Draco’s shoulder, playfully, and Draco swings out a hand to smack Potter. Draco is surprised by how comfortable this is, how easily they’ve fallen into familiarity. Draco is surprised by how happy he feels; satiated and warm. He hasn’t felt this way in years. Trust Potter to bring him here.

After all, it’s always been Potter, hasn’t it?

Draco turns over so that he’s propped on an elbow, facing towards Potter.

So, how long before they royally fuck this up?

_Probably not long. But shut up and let me enjoy it while it lasts. I haven’t got laid in nearly a year._

What, no covert affairs with his Weasel?

Potter lets out a sharp bark of laughter, reminding Draco of Fluffy.

_Now you’re just trying to provoke me._

Draco raises two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute.

_Speaking of Ron, though, we should probably get to the Ministry soon, before he knocks down your door trying to find us._

Potter breaks off to yawn loudly, and Draco imagines him stretching out like a cat beside him.

_I’m going to go dog while we’re out, yeah?_

Draco nods absently, his mind still imagining what Potter looks like, lounging naked beside him. He knows this – whatever this is – probably won’t last, but he hopes it lasts long enough that he gets to actually see Potter at least once.

Preferably naked.

***

Potter sends off a Patronus before they Apparate. Draco crouches and holds Fluffy close to avoid Splinching either of them.

He’s a little disoriented when they land, and he hopes he’s not too far off-target. Fluffy barks and pulls the lead to the left.

_Hullo, Malfoy._

Draco is blind, in case the animal at his heels didn’t tip whoever just spoke off. He’d say hello, but he has no idea who he’d be greeting.

_Merlin, I don’t understand why the fuck Harry is volunteering to hang around you._

Oh, was it the Weasel? Hello, Weasel. Where the fuck are they?

_Outside the Ministry. About time you showed up, too. I hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep, princess._

He did, thank you very much.

Weasley snorts.

_Figures. I don’t know what you threatened Harry with to make him break protocol so many times yesterday, but you’re lucky we didn’t send a squad in to haul your arse in sooner._

Draco didn’t threaten Potter with anything. In fact, he didn’t even know they were _supposed_ to come in to the Ministry until this morning. They’d have come sooner, too, but they got a little caught up in-

Fluffy starts to bark rapidly over Draco, and Draco swears that the barks are the Animagus’s way of telling him to shut his trap. Draco smirks, glad to know he hasn’t lost his touch.

 _You know what, Harry? I don’t want to know. I don’t even want to know, because then I’ll go home and Hermione will read it on my face, and then she’ll want to come over and we’ll have to have another ‘Harry you’re a bloody moron’ intervention and last time that happened, you started shagging blokes. So please, please,_ please, _for the love of all that is holy, let me keep thinking that Malfoy somehow bullied you into breaking protocol._

Fluffy whimpers, and Draco bursts out laughing.

 _Seriously, Harry? Him?_ Weasley whines.

Draco wonders how much Weasley knows about Potter’s feelings for Draco. Too much, probably. Potter is so transparent Draco can practically see through him right now, and he’s _blind_.

Weasley sighs heavily, breaking Draco’s train of thought.

_Let’s get this over with. We’ve got the offender in custody, but I need Malfoy to answer some questions. And Harry’s got to report to Shacklebot about running off after taking a curse like that yesterday. You better hope your Potter-card works today._

Fluffy barks sharply, once.

It doesn’t sound like Fluffy is thrilled about what Ron just said.

 _What?_ Weasly grunts. _Come on, Fluffy, let’s get a move on._

Fluffy barks once again, not moving even as Draco tugs the lead.

Yep, Fluffy definitely isn’t happy.

_What about?_

Draco being questioned?

Fluffy barks once.

No, that’s not it. Reporting to Shacklebot?

Fluffy barks twice.

Well, there he has it. Potter does not want to report to Shacklebot.

_Seriously, mate?_

Draco assumes Weasley isn’t directing that at him. At Weasley’s grunt, Draco crouches down to talk to Fluffy.

Is he just going to hang around while they’re questioning Draco, then?

Two barks.

He’s a big boy, Fluffy, he doesn’t need a guard dog.

Fluffy growls in response.

Fine, fine! Be like that. But Draco isn’t helping him explain anything to his friends when he goes human again. He’s just going to be standing there and laughing while Potter trips over himself about why he gives a shit what happens to Draco.

Two barks again, and Draco snorts back a laugh.

The matter now settled, Draco stands up again and gives the lead another tug. Fluffy moves forward obediently, guiding Draco into the Ministry.

Come on then, Weasel. They’ve got a crime to stop, haven’t they?

He smirks at Weasley’s muttered _Bloody hell_ as the Auror moves past them into the building.

They journey through the twisting corridors of the Ministry with minimal fuss, Weasley taking every opportunity to snigger whenever Draco stumbles around a corner or gets clipped by a paper airplane memo whizzing past him. When they finally stop, Weasley makes no effort to help Draco orient to his surroundings.

He’s about to open his mouth to sneer at Weasley about it when Fluffy barks loudly.

Clearly, Fluffy is not happy about the Weasel’s lack of assistance either.

Weasley grumbles and swears, but describes the room to Draco while Fluffy guides him over to a chair.

_He’s seriously going to stay here while I question you?_

Draco’s not sure which of them Weasley is addressing; either way, it’s hilarious how uncomfortable he is with the situation.

Fluffy barks his affirmative, and Draco’s lap is suddenly full of paws and shaggy fur and dog breath.

Weasley mumbles something under his breath that Draco can’t quite make out, but apparently Fluffy’s heightened senses can, since he gives a little growling bark.

_Whatever. Let’s just get this over with so I can go Obliviate myself in the bathroom._

And people call Draco a drama queen.

_Shut up, Malfoy. Just answer my questions. Have you had any contact with Blaise Zabini in the past three years?_

Blaise? Salazar, that’s a name he hasn’t heard in a while. Yes, he saw him a couple times after the trials, but not since… Not since he moved out of the manor. They lost touch. 

_What about Astoria Greengrass?_

Little Stori? He hasn’t seen Stori since his sixth year. She was two years below them, and they were never particular friends.

_And yet, you call her by a nickname._

Draco frowns, not at all understanding where Weasley is headed. Everybody called her Stori.

_Hmph. So you were never aware of Astoria Greengrass’s feelings towards you?_

Feelings towards him? Oh, right. Daph mentioned something about that once.

_Daph?_

Daphne Greengrass, her sister. In their last year, she mentioned to Draco that Stori had a crush on him, and had wanted him to give her a chance.

_What did you do when Daphne told you this?_

Draco scrubs his face with one hand, thinking. Fuck if he remembers, it’s been nearly four years since then. He laughed, he thinks. Probably made a snide comment.

Fluffy barks, probably wishing he were human again so that he could say something rude about Draco being a prat in school.

Shut up, mutt.

There’s absolutely no heat in it, and Draco chides himself for going soft so easily. Fluffy’s tail thumps against Draco’s side as it wags happily in response.

Bastard. He’s not sure if he’s cursing himself or Potter.

_So you never approached Astoria in a romantic capacity?_

Definitely not.

_And were you aware of Astoria’s recent involvement with Blaise Zabini?_

No. Was this gossip hour or an investigation, Weasel? What does any of this have to do with his attacker?

_The attacker we have in custody is Blaise Zabini._

Draco blinks.

Wait, what?

_You heard me. We have Blaise Zabini in custody, and he’s admitted to throwing a curse at you three days ago._

But… Blaise… Draco knows Blaise. And he hasn’t even _spoken_ to Blaise in _years_. Why the fuck would Blaise come after him now?

_We think he was motivated by his relationship with Astoria._

What’s that supposed to mean? Draco’s hands clench , his fingernails digging into his palms, fighting the urge to storm out of the room, find Blaise himself, demand answers.

Fluffy, as though sensing his anger, prods his wet nose against Draco’s cheek. Draco unclenches a hand and burrows it into Fluffy’s fur, seeking comfort from his presence.

_That’s where things get complicated, Malfoy. Blaise claims he was doing it to defend Astoria’s honour. Then he stopped talking, and he refuses to say anything else._

None of this makes any sense. Blaise is his friend. They never had any bad blood. And Draco has never so much as spoken to Stori!

_Well, if you and Astoria have never had any contact, how can you explain the fact that your so-called friend has tried to kill you twice? Tell me what I’m missing, Malfoy, before I assume you’re lying to me._

Fluffy barks sharply, clearly irritated at Weasley’s shift in demeanor.

Stop that, no need to get stroppy. Draco can handle a puffed-up Weasel.

_Well?_

Draco has no idea. Wait; Blaise is in custody. Can Draco speak with him? Maybe having a competent person talk to him will be useful to their investigation.

_Watch it, Malfoy. I don’t care what Harry thinks of you, I will not hesitate to throw you in a cell to think that attitude over._

Running his fingers through Fluffy’s fur to calm his growling, Draco shrugs. Put him in a cell, then. He doesn’t much care what the Weasel does to him. But if they are interested in actually solving this case, it’s in their best interest to bring Blaise into this room so they can talk.

Weasley doesn’t say anything, but Draco hears the sound of a chair scraping against stone, and then a door banging shut. Fluffy’s growling has quieted, but Draco doesn’t stop petting him, less for Fluffy’s sake and more to occupy his trembling fingers.

_Hello, Draco._

Blaise’s voice startles him, even though he knew it was coming.

 _Nice… pet._ He says it coldly, and Draco knows Blaise well enough to place that tone as derisive mocking.

_Sit down, Zabini._

What the fuck is this about, Blaise? Draco can’t help letting a bit of desperation tinge his voice. He wants to be cool and in control, but he’s having a hard time processing this information. He knows he has to be wary of the public, he knows that the world at large hates him and wants to see him dead, but… he thought he was at least safe from his friends.

 _Friend? Is that what you’d call us, Draco? We haven’t spoken since you got off scot free for the shit the rest of your so-called friends wound up in_ jail _for._

What? Draco splutters on the word, not understanding. He had no control over the outcome of their trials. He’s sorry that Blaise is on probation, but-

_Is that what it was about? Did you just want to rub in the fact that you were free while we paid for our parents’ mistakes? Or are you just a sick bastard like your father-_

He wouldn’t dare talk about Draco’s father.

_Try and stop me, you animal. You’re just like him. Selfish, egotistical… Never so much as an owl to see how we were doing. You got off, and then you left us._

He didn’t leave! Had Blaise forgotten that he was _driven_ out? That someone _burned his house_ , tried to kill him? He had to get away.

_But you couldn’t resist coming back for one last shot at us, could you?_

What was he _talking_ about? Draco is fully shouting now, his grip so tight on Fluffy’s fur he is certain it is hurting the Animagus.

_You masochistic son of a bitch, you probably didn’t even enjoy it. Is everything you do about power? I suppose you can’t take the Malfoy out of you, no matter how far you fall._

_Enough!_

Draco sucks in a sharp breath, not having expected Weasley’s roaring interruption.

_What is this all about, Zabini? I suggest you tell me now, because I am losing my nerve with both of you, and nobody will care if I leave you to rot in a cell as soon as my patience snaps._

_But Draco will get off again, won’t he? Like he always does. Dancing through loopholes, or buying off the Wizengamot. Taking everything he wants for his own and never paying the consequences._

Blaise doesn’t know a damn thing about the price that Draco has paid for his mistakes.

_I bet you don’t even regret what you did._

Blaise’s words make him shiver, reminding him uncannily of the conversation he had with Potter the day before. The skin on his left arm prickles, but he won’t touch it. He won’t, because he won’t let Blaise know how weak he feels right now.

_I bet you’re sitting there, laughing at me, because you raped my girlfriend and-_

Draco is so startled, he lets out a noise halfway between a squawk and a nervous laugh, just as Weasley swears loudlyand Fluffy starts barking aggressively. It is nothing short of chaotic for a long moment until Draco’s brain catches up with the mess around him.

Draco never touched Stori. Blaise is full of shit.

 _Liar! She’s is pregnant, did you know? That the girl you raped is pregnant with_ your _child?_

Draco is sorry that Blaise’s girlfriend is up the duff with some other bloke’s kid, but it’s not his.

 _He’s lying, Weasley! He’s a rapist, he’s a bastard, and he deserves to be killed!_ Blaise’s voice is so loud, so angry, that Draco can perfectly imagine the way that Blaise’s face reddens as his neck strains against the words.

Silence settles over the room, the kind of silence Draco now hates. He feels completely cut off, drifting in a sea of darkness, with no idea what’s happening around him. Every nerve on edge, his stomach churning with the feeling that he’s being watched, being snuck up on.

Fluffy snuffles his nose against Draco’s neck, as though to tether him back to the ground with a tangible connection. Draco’s heart beats into his throat, and in that second he hates how much he’s come to rely on Potter these past few days. Hates how much he craves Potter’s care, and how easily Potter knows exactly what he needs.

He didn’t touch Astoria.

Nobody answers him.

_Zabini, it’s time to get back to your cell._

There’s a scuffle, presumably as Weasley shepherds Blaise out of the room, and Draco is surprised that Zabini doesn’t answer. It occurs to him belatedly that Weasley probably silenced the man when he raised his voice. As soon as the door clicks shut, Fluffy jumps out of his lap.

Where is Fluffy going? Draco hopes he doesn’t sound terrified when he asks.

_Right here. I couldn’t stay dog. We… I need to talk to you._

Draco feels the tension bleed out of him at the sound of Potter’s voice.

_You’re shaking like a leaf again._

He’s… The words die in Draco’s throat. He’s not fine. He didn’t touch Astoria. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, and he hates that he can’t see anything, it’s making everything so much worse. Why would Blaise do this to him? Blaise is his _friend_!

_I’m sorry._

What the fuck is he sorry about? Potter didn’t do anything.

_I’m sorry that this happened. You don’t deserve this._

The worst part is, he does. And who is going to take his word against Stori’s? She was too young to be caught up in the war. She’s just an innocent, and Draco is a criminal.

_Stop that._

Suddenly, Potter’s arms are around him, holding him tightly, and Draco wants to struggle against him and melt into him all at the same time.

_I know you’re innocent._

How? How does he know? Draco’s a monster. Maybe he did rape her. Maybe he raped a girl to prove to the world that he’s still a monster, that he has the power to ruin someone’s life.

_But you didn’t, did you._

Of course he didn’t! But Potter can’t prove it, nobody can prove it.

Potter’s lips brush against Draco’s temple, and Potter lets out a rumbling sigh that Draco feels vibrating against his body.

_First, I know you didn’t do it because you aren’t a monster. You don’t care about power, and you aren’t your father. Second, I know you didn’t do it because I happen to know a little bit more about your tastes, and I can speak from experience when I say Astoria Greengrass is hardly your type._

Draco chuckles weakly at that, and feels Potter’s lips curve into a small smile against his temple.

_Third, we can check paternity. You’re not the father, which will rule you out as a suspect. See? Crisis averted._

Draco nods, but everything still feels unsettled. He’s struggling to comprehend the fact that his friend, a friend he shared a room with for seven years, tried to murder him. That Blaise was so angry, so spiteful, that he tried to end Draco’s life.

Draco is thrumming with the realization that there is nobody, no one, left who cares about him. Blaise is the final nail in the coffin. His friends aren’t his friends, his enemies are everywhere, and he is all alone. Completely and utterly alone.

The door clicks open again, breaking Draco’s train of thought, and Potter jumps to speak before Draco has a chance to open his mouth.

_He didn’t do it._

Draco hears Weasley exhale heavily.

_You don’t know that, Harry._

_Yes, I do._ Draco can hear the anger creeping into Potter’s voice.

_Why? Because all of a sudden you two are cosying up?_

_Ron, don’t question me on this._

_I’m sorry, Harry, I really am. But until we get Astoria in here for questioning, Malfoy is under arrest for sexual assault._

_Ron. Don’t._ Potter’s words sound like they are being spit out from clenched teeth. He still hasn’t stepped away from Draco, his arms tight around Draco’s waist.

_I can’t make exceptions for you because you’re… involved with him. You know that, Harry. I know you think he’s some sort of martyr, but he’s been accused of rape, and we have no evidence that he’s innocent._

_My word doesn’t count for anything?_

_Don’t make me say it, Harry._

_Say what, Ron?_ Potter’s voice cracks on Weasley’s name, and Draco is astonished that Potter is taking it this far. That Potter is fighting for Draco against his best friend.

 _Your involvement in the case is compromised because of your personal relationship with the suspect. As your partner, I’m going to have to report you to Robards and have you removed from the case. I’m sorry, Harry. I really am._ Weasley does sound apologetic, although Draco knows the pity in his voice is all for Potter, not for him.

_If you take him into custody, just know that I will never forgive you._

Weasley sighs again. _I’m sorry it has to be this way, Harry. For your sake, I really hope he’s innocent._

_He is innocent!_

Shut up, Potter. Draco can speak for himself, thank you very much. His words come out more harshly than he had intended, but Draco is past caring. He just needs all the noise around him to stop, he just needs his bloody eyes to work.

_I’m going with him to the holding cell._

_No fucking way._

_Ron, this is the least you can do. I’m not leaving him alone._

Draco wants to shout that he wants to be alone, that he’s done being spoken about like he’s some pitiable child, but the words are stuck in his throat.

He’s about to insist that Potter leave him be, let him handle it alone, when Weasley speaks again.

_You’ll have to go dog, and none of the other Aurors who know about Fluffy can see you, understand?_

Potter’s arms, still tight around Draco’s waist, loosen up.

_I understand._

Potter lets go of Draco, disappearing only momentarily before a wet tongue laps at Draco’s knuckles, letting him know that Fluffy is there.

_Let’s get a move on, then. The sooner you’re locked up, the sooner I can get Astoria in for questioning._

***

Draco’s not sure how long he’s in the cell for. Fluffy is a constant presence at his side, diverting his thoughts with playful barks and a tail wagging so hard it thumps steadily against the bench they’re sitting on.

Draco tells the Animagus he’s annoying, insults him at every opportunity, but it does nothing to diminish Fluffy’s enthusiasm. Or his licking Draco’s face, which is disgusting, because Merlin knows where that tongue has been. He barely wants Potter’s slobber all over him, let alone Fluffy’s.

It’s a lost cause, though. His insults have no heat, and Draco can feel himself slipping, can feel his guard falling around Potter’s persistence.

Finally, Draco hears keys jangling in front of him.

_You’re free to go._

What, no how are you? No apology? He should complain to the head Auror about this kind of customer service.

_Don’t push it, Malfoy._

Draco makes no move to stand up. Is he at least going to get to hear why he’s being released?

_Astoria caved nearly the second she got in. Said she felt responsible for what Blaise had done to you, and had never meant to get you hurt. She admitted to making up the story to cover up an affair. Her sister told her that you’d left the wizarding world permanently, so she figured implicating you would have no consequences. She knew that everyone would buy it, given… You know, who you are and all that._

Right. Given who he is and all that, indeed.

Draco exhales sharply, trying to rein in his anger, grief, and hurt at the fact that the people he once called friends so easily gave up on him. No, not gave up on him; actively turned against him, accusing him of rape and trying to kill him.

He’s still reeling from the fact that Blaise had thought so little of Draco that he believed Astoria’s story. More than believed it. He saw it as a completely expected thing for Draco to do.

His friends, apparently, thought he was the same man his father was. His friends thought he was deserving of the same fate the public wanted for him. Wanted him gone, or dead, or at best, didn’t care if they ever saw him again.

Draco stands up abruptly, tugging Fluffy down off the bench after him. Come on. It’s time to go home. Draco has had enough of the fucking Ministry for the rest of his life.

As though sensing how upset Draco is, Fluffy obeys immediately, and they leave the Ministry to the sound of whispers and surreptitious, judging stares that Draco doesn’t need to see to know are there.

As soon as the tug of Apparition fades and Draco is back in his house, he wastes no time giving Fluffy his next command. Get Draco to the kitchen.

He’s relieved when Fluffy obeys without a questioning bark, because Draco has nothing left in him to explain. They move through his house in silence, Draco trailing a hand along the wall until it collides with the countertop. Crouching down, he swings open the cabinet and gropes blindly for his target.

He has no idea what bottle he’s pulled out, but he’s quick to unscrew the cap and bring it to his mouth. The sharp liquid burns as he swallows, leaving a faintly sweet aftertaste overwhelmed by the smell of alcohol.

Draco drops Fluffy’s lead and sits back against the cabinet, taking another long gulp from the bottle.

_What are you doing?_

Potter’s voice startles him, and he nearly drops the bottle in his hand out of surprise. Salazar, warn a guy next time, Potter.

 _What are you doing?_ Potter repeats himself, and Draco frowns at his tone. Was Potter worried about him? Draco waves him off with a casual hand. Don’t worry about him. He needs to get good and drunk right now, and forget about Blaise Zabini and Astoria fucking Greengrass.

_Why don’t we talk about it?_

Draco repeats Potter’s question in a mocking voice. Draco has no desire to rehash what just happened. He’s resolute in not thinking about it, in fact. Just piss off for a bit, Potter, and leave Draco alone.

_I don’t like people who drink to solve their problems, is all._

Well, Draco doesn’t give a fuck if Potter likes him.

_You don’t mean that._

He certainly does.

The bottle in his hand is unceremoniously yanked away, sloshing liquid all over Draco’s arm in a short tug of war.

Give that back, Potter.

_No. Talk to me._

Fuck off, Potter. Draco growls, making a dive for the man beside him. He doesn’t stand a chance against the Auror blind, and he’s flat on his back with his arms pinned down in seconds.

_Talk. To. Me._

Fuck. Off.

_Come on, Draco._

He doesn’t have anything to _say_. He’s done talking. His friend tried to kill him, Potter. His classmate accused him of raping her. Doesn’t that buy him the right to stop talking? To stop trying to atone for everything he’s done in the past? He hasn’t _bothered_ anyone in so long, Potter. He just minds his own business. And he still gets this. So he’s done. He’s done everything.

_Just like that?_

Just like that. Nothing he does makes a difference; he’ll never be looked at as anything but the villain. Go home, Potter. Game’s over. Draco doesn’t want him hanging around anymore.

_Come on, Draco. You just have to keep trying. People will come around. We can work together. People can see you’re not the same person. They’ll change, they will, they’ll-_

Shut _up,_ Potter! They won’t change! They never will, and they’ll never believe that Draco has. All these past few days have done to Draco is remind him of why he left in the first place. He’s done with the wizarding world forever, Potter. He’s not going back. They don’t want him there. Not even his friends want him there.

_Shit, Draco! You can’t just give up!_

Sure he can. He has. What, does that baffle Potter’s tiny little noble brain? He supposes Saint Potter would be able to handle all this shit, would just triumph over and over while the world kicked him down, and spat in his face, and ruined everything, absolutely everything…

_Not everything._

Really? Not everything? What does he have left, Potter? Tell him what he has left, and he’ll gladly revise his opinion. But from where he’s standing, he’s pretty sure there is abso-fucking-lutely nothing left for him.

_I’m still here, aren’t I?_

Draco nearly chokes on the bitter laugh that escapes his throat. Right. He’s here. Saint fucking Potter is still here, saving the damned, stroking the helpless, fixing the world’s wrongs. Sorry, Potter, but he can’t fix everything. He can’t fix Draco’s problems, and as soon as he realizes that, he’ll be gone.

_I’m not trying to fix anything, Draco._

Don’t do that. Don’t call him Draco.

_Why? It’s your name._

Because Potter doesn’t call him Draco. He calls him Malfoy, like he should, because they aren’t friends. He’s only here to fight justice and all that rot.

_No, I’m not._

Liar. He’s here as an Auror. That’s what they do.

_I’m here as a friend. I’m here as… Fuck, Draco, I don’t know what we are, but I’m not here as an Auror, and I haven’t been here as an Auror since…_

Since they fucked? That’s pathetic, Potter.

 _You’re just saying that because you want me to go._ Draco’s not sure if he imagines the uncertainty in Potter’s voice.

No, he’s not. He means it. It meant nothing to him, he was just a convenient fuck, and now Draco wants him gone.

It’s not true, and no matter how loudly he shouts it at Potter, Draco knows it isn’t true. Knows that something has happened between them and he wants it to grow. But it can’t, and he won’t naively pretend it can.

_It meant something, and you know it._

Meant _what_ , Potter? That they could be together? Star-crossed lovers so passionate the world will just accept them? Oh, you bleeding heart romantic. That won’t happen. Draco will tell him what will happen. Potter will insist it will be okay, because he’s a stupid fucking optimist hell-bent on changing a world that has no desire to change. People will hate Draco, blame Draco, accuse Draco of all manner of things. They won’t stop until they’re split up, until Draco is gone. Forever.

_You don’t know that._

Yes, he does. He’s done talking now. Let him up. If he can’t drink, he’s going to go pretend Potter doesn’t exist in his living room. 

Potter sighs, but helps Draco to his feet.

Draco moves slowly out of the room, feeling along the wall to centre himself and navigate to the living room without any help.

He spends the next little while in silence in his living room, thumbing through books he can’t see. The smell and feel of his books bring him a ridiculous amount of comfort, and although it takes a good long while, he’s starting to feel close to human again.

He wonders how much of that is the books, and how much is Potter, whose presence he can feel as surely as if he were seeing him.

Without trying to talk to him, Potter brings him the quill and his parchment from earlier that morning. Draco accepts them as a peace offering, and sets to work to finish his manuscript. Potter’s still watching, Draco knows it. The matter they left in the kitchen hasn’t been settled, and the tension between them is underscored by the weight of Potter’s desire to make more out of what Draco has firmly dismissed.

Neither of them mentions it.

Vainly, Draco hopes Potter forgets about it before the day is out.

***

As soon as Draco wakes up on the fifth day, his eyes shoot open, expectant, hoping to find the familiar sight of his room.

All he finds is darkness. His heart racing, he closes his eyes and opens them again, feeling panic set in. He can’t see anything. He is supposed to see things today, the potion should have worked by now, but he can’t see anything.

Which means this blindness…

This blindness might be permanent.

He barely realizes he’s hyperventilating until a hand comes to rest at the base of his neck, a low voice murmuring for him to calm down and breathe slowly.

He can’t see. He can’t bloody see.

_Shhh, shh. Calm down for me, Draco._

He relaxes into the touch, breath easing to a less frantic pace. It’s still odd for him to wake up with Potter next to him, and he’s half afraid Potter is going to ruin it by pushing the conversation places Draco hasn’t let it go the past few days. In fact, Draco had been determined to freeze Potter out completely after their fight, just in case, until the man had tentatively placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder and asked whether he should bunk on the sofa. Draco had found himself patting the spot next to him in bed before he could stop himself.

Then they’d woken up joking and teasing each other as though everything was fine, moved through the day with Potter helping Draco around the house while Draco bitched and complained. Draco was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing seemed to shake Potter’s stoic patience, nor his ability to shake off Draco’s defensiveness and return the barbs with a laugh.

_Better?_

Yes. No. Draco’s not sure. He can’t see. The healer said five days, it’s been five days. Why can’t he see?

_The healer never said when on the fifth day. It’s probably nothing. Just keep breathing, Draco._

They have to go to St. Mungo’s. As soon as possible. He needs to see the healer.

_Okay. I’ll get you some clothing, and we’ll head there immediately. I’m going to have to go dog first._

Wait! Not yet. Just- wait for them to get to St. Mungo’s. He doesn’t care if someone sees Potter, he just… Draco trails off, realizing he’s not making any sense. But Potter seems to understand, since he pats Draco’s shoulder a final time before moving off the bed, returning with a bundle of clothing.

 _I’m not just going to leave you because five days are up, you know. I’ll be with you however long you need me. If that’s what you’re worried about._ Potter says with what Draco strongly suspects is forced casualness. Draco freezes, one arm in his jumper.

He doesn’t need Potter. It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Shit, that’s not what he means. But he still can’t say so, can’t find the words to tell Potter that it’s not his help that Draco wants.

_Oh. I just thought…_

Shit, no. That’s not what he means. Half of Draco wants to agree with Potter, to throw up his defenses, but he can’t right now. He wants Potter next to him too much. He doesn’t need Potter’s help. That’s what he means. If he needed Potter’s help, he’d have told Potter to go dog. He’s an idiot. He just means that...

_I think I know what you mean._

No, he doesn’t! Draco means that he doesn’t want Potter to go dog because he needs Potter to be Potter, because he needs a… a…

_A friend?_

Fuck. No. Not a friend. He doesn’t have friends. He doesn’t need a friend, he needs Potter. It’s … He feels like he’s treading water, these days. Not just with the blindness. With everything. He’s stuck, treading water, and he’s getting tired, but he can’t stop, or he’ll drown. And he doesn’t want to drown. Not anymore. Not now that… The words stick in Draco’s throat. There’s someone waiting for him on shore.

_You know, for someone who claims to be an absolute asshole, you’re pretty adorable. I’m not here because I have to be. I’m here because I want to be. You can stop treading water, Draco. I’ll get you to shore. I’m pretty wicked at dog paddling, you know._

Potter is absolutely incorrigible. And Draco is not adorable. He’s not a fucking kitten.

Potter doesn’t answer, but kisses Draco softly instead. It’s different from the hard, eager kisses they exchanged earlier. It’s not about sex, it’s not about desire. It’s an unspoken promise. That he’ll be there. That he cares. Draco shivers as Potter pulls back, still so close their noses are touching.  

_Come on, then. If you’re done being ridiculous, I can Apparate us to St. Mungo’s. I’ll be by your side, whether I’m Fluffy or myself. And not because I feel like I have to help you, but because I want to be by your side, too._

Potter Apparates them seconds later, holding Draco close against himself. They land somewhere cold, definitely outside, and Potter kisses Draco.

_I’m going to go dog now. Is that okay?_

Draco takes a deep, shuddering breath. Yeah. He’ll be fine. As long as Potter stays right next to him. Potter tucks a lock of Draco’s hair behind his ear, and presses his lips gently against Draco’s temple.

_I promise._

It doesn’t take long for them to get into St. Mungo’s. Draco is counting every minute that his eyes still aren’t working, and every time he blinks the darkness that follows his open eyes makes him feel a little more nauseous. Fluffy helps him find his way to the healer who had attended to him when he first woke up after Blaise’s attack. As soon as the healer _tsks_ after checking over his eyes, he knows it’s bad news.

_Your eyes haven’t reacted to the potion._

Clearly, since he’s still fucking blind.

_Please, Mr. Malfoy. I understand this is difficult for you, but I must ask that you keep your voice down._

So the potion isn’t working. Is there a plan B?

_I’m afraid not._

Draco feels his stomach drop. So, that’s it then? He’s blind forever?

_There’s one last resort. We can treat your eyes with an experimental salve. It’s stronger than the potion, and it may act as a catalyst for the potion ingredients to become effective._

How long will it take?

_Only a few hours. We’ll have to cover your eyes during the treatment, as any amount of light entering your cornea you will nullify the reaction._

And what are the chances that it will work?

_It’s hard to say. I’d be hard pressed to-_

What are the chances that it will work? Draco repeats himself more loudly, hopefully intimidating the truth out of his healer.

_I’d say 25%, maybe 30. If it doesn’t, Mr. Malfoy, please understand that there are many devices and spells to make life for the blind wizard easier. It won’t be long before you’re used to living without your sight._

Get out.

_Sorry, Mr. Malfoy, I didn’t mean to offend you…_

Get _out!_ Draco won’t sit here and be told how his life will be normal. It’s a fucking lie, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

_I’ll just leave you here while I go get the salve, then?_

Hurry up. Draco wants this over and done with.

 _You didn’t have to be quite so bratty with that healer._ Potter’s voice is next to him only moments later.

Potter should have stayed dog. The healer will be back in a second.

_I don’t care. It’s game over regardless, Draco. If you get your sight back in the next few hours, you won’t need me to be your guide dog anymore._

And if he doesn’t, Potter isn’t going to hang around and impersonate an animal for the rest of their lives.

_That’s not what I meant._

Yes it is. If this is permanent, Potter’s going to be out the door anyway. He’s got a life to get back to, and Draco isn’t part of that life.

_What if I want you to be?_

Draco shakes his head. He can’t be. Potter doesn’t want that.

_I think I know what I want. Merlin knows it took me long enough to admit it._

Don’t- Potter can’t- Draco doesn’t have anything left, doesn’t Potter see? Potter can’t just jerk him around like this. It’s easier for him just to leave now, before Draco gets any more attached.

_I’m not leaving. I told you that. Not now, not after you get your sight back. So stop trying to push me away, and stop being such an arse. I’m not going anywhere._

And if he doesn’t get his sight back?

_I’ll still be right here for as long as you want me._

Playing the role of his trusty guide dog?

_I was thinking the role of a… Of someone you’re in a relationship with. Forget the dog. This isn’t about the dog, anymore._

Shame. He likes the dog. It’s easier to ignore Potter when he’s a slobbering rug instead of his usual annoying self.

_Only you would make stupid jokes at a time like this._

If he doesn’t joke, he’s going to cry.

_Fair enough. Look, I’m not going to promise you anything. Whatever this is… It’s new, and I don’t know where it’s headed. But I know where I want it to head._

Let’s pretend for an insane second that Draco goes along with this. That he and Potter try for… A relationship. Which is preposterous at its outset. But even if they do try, they’re going to fuck it up royally. Or kill each other. Potentially both.

_But the sex will be pretty hot, won’t it?_

The sound of someone clearing their throat cuts over Potter’s words, and Draco laughs, imagining Potter blushing and avoiding eye contact with whomever has entered the room.

_Oh, Healer Montrose. I didn’t see you there._

_Evidently._ Draco can’t tell if the healer’s tone is amused or disproving.

_Is that the salve?_

_Yes. I can begin the procedure as soon as Mr. Malfoy is ready._

He’s ready.

_Great. I’ll… I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be waiting outside, then._

Potter?

_What?_

Can he… Can Potter stay?

_If he’d like to, I don’t see a problem with Auror Potter staying in the room._

Potter is standing next to him in a heartbeat, both hands clasped around one of Draco’s.

_Now, this is going to sting. I’ll be putting the salve on, then immediately wrapping your eyes in a magically bound cloth to release in two hours._

Sting is an understatement. Draco knows the second the salve is applied, his eyes feeling immediately like they’ve been pierced with hot pokers. He grinds his teeth together, squeezing his hand around Potter’s.

_I’m right here. Just relax, it’ll be over soon._

_Okay, the cloth has been put into place. I’ll be back to check on you in a little while. Auror Potter, you can call a mediwitch if he needs anything. Mr. Malfoy, how are you doing there?_

Just peachy, thanks. Draco gasps the words in between the roils of pain that shoot through his eyes and radiate through his entire body. Someone pats his arm, he suspects the healer, and then he hears a door click shut.

_Is it that bad?_

Draco’s snide response dies on a particularly harsh wave of pain, and he nods instead of replying.

_Can I do anything to help?_

He can lie down next to Draco and hold him.

 _Sure, of course._ Potter sounds as surprised to hear Draco’s words as Draco is at the fact that he accidentally said them out loud. But it’s too late to take them back, and his vulnerability is paying off, since Potter’s arms are warm and strong around him.

_What’s the first thing you want to do when you can see again?_

What the fuck is Potter on about?

_Trying to distract you. Come on, what do you want to do when we get out of here?_

Go back to the Ministry.

_Really? How come?_

First, to punch Blaise’s face in. Then, to snog Potter in front of the Weasel and watch his head explode.

_The Auror in me wants to tell you that both of those things are terrible, and you’re a bit wicked._

There’s a beat of silence, Potter chuckling softly beside Draco.

_But the other part of me would love to join you in beating Zabini to a pulp, and would probably laugh right along with you if Ron’s head explodes. Then again, it’s probably going to be good for him. He’s got to get used to it, since I have no plans to let you go any time soon._

He has to ask; did the Weasel know about Draco before they went to the Ministry? Draco can feel Potter breathe in sharply, hesitating before answering.

_He knew I’d been thinking about you recently. Since I came out. Well, before that, but… They figured it out when I came out. Apparently I have a type._

Oh, Potter, what an unbearable cliché. Please don’t tell Draco that he’s been shagging look-alikes and dreaming about the day he could melt Draco’s cold heart.

_When you put it like that, I sound completely vapid._

If the shoe fits.

_I’d tell you to shut up, but you look too pathetic right now. It’d just be mean._

Draco’s sure he looks better than Potter, even when he’s blind and sweating from pain and grinding his teeth.

_I’m not going to argue with that. You always look gorgeous._

He’s- Potter’s supposed to argue with him, not agree.

Potter laughs.  _There’s no rule that we_ have _to argue about everything, you know._

Yes there is. It’s the rule of they’re Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, and that’s what they _do_.

_I think we’ve been redefining what Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter do together, don’t you?_

They do argue, all the time! They’re arguing right now!

_Yes, but we also joke, and talk, and laugh, and fuck._

Draco swallows hard, it finally hitting him that this was happening. He had somehow become friends with Harry Potter. He had somehow become Harry Potter’s boyfriend.

_You’re just realizing this now? And you call me slow._

It’s not even been a week. He’s still… He’s still not sure they can do this.

_I am. I’m positive._

Draco’s reply is again derailed by a bout of pain in his eyes, and Potter pulls him closer.

_Look, let’s not worry about it now. We were distracting you, remember? Let’s talk about something else._

The two hours trickle by slowly, despite Potter attempts to distract Draco from the searing pain that seems to get worse every second. It’s so bad at one point that Draco throws up, and Potter calls the mediwitch in to demand a pain potion. Unfortunately, she explains, any other potion ingredients might affect what’s happening to his eyes, so he’s going to have to ride out the pain. Draco stops listening after she says this, though she and Potter carry on talking. He’s too lost in the pain, whimpering and curling into Potter’s body, trying without success to relieve the raw pain in his eyes by pressing his face as close as he can to the cool, wet cloth that seems to have magically appeared by his side.

Finally, _finally_ , the healer comes back in. Draco feels unfamiliar fingers at his head, checking around the bandage before pulling it away. Immediately, as soon as the cloth is pulled away, the darkness gives way to unbearably bright light.

Wait – light? Draco’s heart stutters, and holding his breath, he cracks his eyes open the slightest bit.

Bright white floods in, sharp and intense, and he screws his eyes shut again, recoiling back. Then opens them again. The light is less sharp, still too much, but the more he blinks the more the brightness settles until he can see the blurry outline of white walls, green curtains, and a wide, brilliant smile that makes his stomach flip and his heart hammer faster.

Draco realizes he’s crying, and brings a hand up to wipe the tears away from the corner of his eyes. He can see. The salve worked. He can see.

“Hey there,” Potter says, and Draco watches red, red lips form those words through his infectious smile. He’s handsome, so handsome, like Draco knew he would be. The same Potter he remembers, only completely different, with a shadow of dark stubble along a strong jaw and perfect cheekbones. His eyes, though, his eyes are the same. The same eyes Draco remembers. Only he’s never seen them like this before, full of life, framed by the faintest laugh lines. All the pieces fall into place when he looks at the warmth in those green eyes. All the expressions he’s been missing the past week, every smile and frown and quirked grin, all fall into place when he sees Potter’s face.

He leans over and kisses Potter, not even thinking about the fact that the healer is in the room and everyone can see them. He doesn’t care, because Potter looks so kissable, and Draco can see that now.

Draco can see everything now.

***

_Four months later_

Draco treasures waking up a lot more now than he ever did before the attack. Every morning he opens his eyes to light, gradually fading from overwhelming brightness to the familiar sight of his walls, his armoire, his duvet tossed haphazardly across a very naked Harry Potter.

“Morning,” Potter mumbles, turning over and stretching his arms above his head. Draco smiles at him, leans down and kisses him soundly. When they break apart, Draco lies back down next to Potter, not touching him, just looking at him. It will never get old, he thinks, staring at Potter. Even months after the attack, it’s almost as good as touching him. Cataloguing every centimeter of his body, just in case he can’t see tomorrow, just in case he ever needs to remember what Potter looks like ever again. He memorizes every shift of muscle, every expression, every one of his obnoxious habits that drive Draco mad.

As though reading Draco’s mind, Potter turns his head and cracks the bones in his neck. He hates when Potter does that. It’s repulsive. It’s like snapping a chicken’s neck before you kill it.

Potter quirks a grin in response, and does it again, more loudly.

Draco sometimes wonders why he puts up with Potter at all.

“Because I’m just that good looking,” Potter replies teasingly, leaning over and bumping his nose against Draco’s playfully.

What a conceited prat.

“A conceited prat who happens to hold Witch Weekly’s title for ‘Most Stunning Smile.'”

Draco would argue, but he can’t. It is a stunning smile. It’s his favorite thing to see, wide and warm and carefree. He hates to think that if that salve hadn’t worked, he would never have seen Potter’s smile.

“Stop being maudlin. It’s too early for you to be maudlin.”

What time is it, anyway? Draco rolls over to grab for the small clock on the floor beside his bed.

“Too early to be awake, probably.” Potter snakes an arm around Draco’s waist and pulls him flush against his chest, nuzzling at his neck. “But I think we can keep ourselves busy until a saner hour to get out of bed, don’t you?”

Potter nips at Draco’s collarbone, his hand skirting along Draco’s side and grasping his rapidly hardening prick.

Insatiable beast.

“And you love it.”

Draco’s heart squeezes at Potter’s casual use of that word. They haven’t said it to each other, not yet, but Draco has recently found it on the tip of his tongue. It caught him off guard, the first time, last week. They had been sitting in Draco’s back garden, Potter mulishly upset because of the latest _Prophet_ headline condemning him for turning his back on the public.

Draco hated seeing Potter upset about the way he had been treated since they were spotted emerging from St. Mungo’s hand in hand, after Draco’s sight had returned. He felt like everything that had happened to Potter since then, the hate mail, the death threats, the disapproval, was his fault. He’d be damned if it meant he was letting Potter go, since having Potter with him was worth any curses or threats directed to Draco. But he did feel like it was his job to cheer Potter up, to be the optimist the few times when Potter was vulnerable enough to not be the brave one.

 So when Potter turned to him and apologized for all the fuss he had caused by dragging Draco into this, a switch had flipped inside Draco. A feeling, nothing short of overwhelming love, for the stupid, stubborn, self-sacrificing, caring, loving wanker bubbled up through his chest. His heart felt fit to burst in that second, and he barely swallowed down the ‘ _I love you’_ before it was past his lips.

“You’re a million miles away,” Potter murmurs in his ear, hot breath spilling across Draco’s cheek.

Sorry. He was just thinking.

“Care to share?”

Remember last weekend, in the back garden? Harry stiffens, breathing in deeply.

“I thought we agreed we’d stop talking about the _Prophet._ It’ll be old news, soon. They’ll get used to it, they have to, and then we can stop argu-”

He loves him.

The world doesn’t stop turning on its axis, but he feels Potter still, and he shuts his eyes tight. He’s a moron. He shouldn’t have said it. It’s too soon, Potter probably doesn’t want to say it back, he shouldn’t have said anything, he doesn’t want to lose Potter…

Potter pulls back, turning Draco to face him.

“Open your eyes, Draco.”

No.

“You’re being ridiculous. You hate not being able to see.”

It’s true, he does. But he’d rather be blind again than have to see Potter looking at him like he used to, with nothing but disgust or loathing.

“I haven’t looked at you like that since we were sixteen. Open your eyes, Draco.”

Draco holds his breath and opens his eyes, half expecting to see Potter looking tense, or awkward, or like he’s about to break Draco’s heart.

But Potter is smiling, Draco’s favourite smile, better than any hug or any kiss or any words.

“I love you too, you absolute lunatic.”

Oh.

Well, then.

Maybe not _any_ words.

 _Fin._  

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